


Primum Non Nocere: A Whumptober 2019 Collection

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Historical, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Major Character Injury, Married Couple, Missing Scene, Modern Era, Old Married Couple, Other, Post-Canon, Self-Doubt, War, Whump, Whumptober 2019, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 38,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: All my short stories from Whumptober 2019 collected together!





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> All of these have been lightly edited from when I posted them on Tumblr, for clarity/spelling/my deep and abiding need to find a word I like and repeat it 17 times in two paragraphs.
> 
> Will update every few days, probably, as I have time to edit. Warnings, if necessary, will be in each chapter's notes.

Aziraphale swallowed hard, and set the small box down. His hands were shaking so much he feared he might drop it, and perhaps damage the precious thing inside, and that would never do.

He was being a fool, but when had that ever stopped him before? It was impossible Crowley had forgiven him for the way he'd acted.

Of course they were friends, _that_ wasn't going to change. But Aziraphale had gone too slowly and missed his chance, he was quite sure of it.

He was, at heart, unloveable. Not un _likeable_ , he wasn't that foolish. He'd had companions over the years, various people who had been important to him, and likewise he to they. And of course there was God's grace, which was a kind of love. An overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful, ineffable kind of love, though; so it felt it didn't really count. Besides, God extended her Grace to all creatures, so it wasn't like he was special.

(All creatures except for the demons, even one particular demon who was so good not-very-deep-down. There, Aziraphale was betraying himself again. He knew Crowley was good, better than any angel. Why had he not known this before?)

But that left him unloveable, and cut off from Heaven in the bargain. He'd do it all again, of course, but the outcome would be the same.

Namely – he and Crowley, on earth. On their own side. Dinners together and Crowley often hanging around the bookshop, and drives every other Sunday to see what the Bentley could do. Companionship.

And Aziraphale, foolish principality, was going to bollocks it all up by telling Crowley his heart.

His hands were still shaking when Crowley arrived, but he managed to get the box into his pocket, at least, and stand up to greet his friend.

“My dear! It's absolutely dreadful out there,” he wittered on, in his best wittering way. “You're simply a martyr to come all this way in the rain.”

“You all right, angel?” Crowley asked, after giving him a weird look. There wasn't a drop of water on him, of course. The rain wouldn't _dare_.

“Fine, fine, why wouldn't I be? Shall it be wine tonight? Only I've got the most delightful rioja. It'll put hair on your chest!” he said cheerfully, making a little fist and gesturing with it.

“I have hair on my chest,” Crowley said. He took his sunglasses off and squinted at Aziraphale. “You sure you're all right? Only you don't go all inter-war poof unless you're really nervous.”

“Fine!” Aziraphale said, his voice scaling up. “Fine, of course. So! Wine?”

“God, yes,” Crowley said. “Absolutely dire today.”

“You don't even work anymore, how could today be _dire_?” Aziraphale's voice returned to its usual register, and he managed to get the bottle uncorked and two glasses poured with steady hands. They took their usual seats, of course, Aziraphale in his easy chair and Crowley on the sofa.

Breathe. You're friends. You'll be friends after. Crowley can't possibly love you, but you've got to let him know. That the love he had, that died – it wasn't unmet.  _Crowley_ was loved, and he ought to bloody well know it. He  _deserved_ it.

Unlike some angels Aziraphale could name, who'd faffed about for centuries and taken advantage and been  _foolish_ , such an idiot, to have lost the most precious thing in the world.

“Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale caught the wineglass before it hit the floor, any splashing of course miracled away. He hadn't noticed his hand was shaking so hard, but gravity certainly had.

“Angel, enough.” Crowley's voice was sharp. “Something's wrong. Tell me what it is. Whatever it is, we'll fight it together. I promise.” He was standing so close, so _close, _and Aziraphale had to close his eyes and curl in on himself for a moment. What a cruel, beautiful world this was.

“Angel.” A gentler voice now, and Crowley kneeling by him. “Nothing is this bad. Not anymore. Not while I'm around.”

Aziraphale shook his head, and passed his hand across his eyes, then took a deep breath. “It's not. It's not like that.” Another breath. “You can't help.”

“I bloody well can!” Crowley didn't sound angry, though, the way Aziraphale deserved. More...concerned.

Well, they might as well get this over with now. Aziraphale would have wine and books to comfort himself with, when Crowley made an uncomfortable excuse and left. It would have to be enough.

“I don't think you can, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled sadly at him. “Crowley. I have something for you.” The terrible trembling had begun again, but he reached into his pocket and retrieved the little velvet box, pressing it into Crowley's hands

“You'll have to open it. Afraid I'm a bit, well, nervy.” Aziraphale gave him a sickly smile. In this too, he would fail.

“All right, angel,” Crowley said gently. He took the box and opened it.

Inside lay a ring, a band of wide yellow gold. Intricate red enamel was inlaid; snakes twining about each other. In more than one place, their loops sketched hearts, if you knew how to see. The red and gold glowed under the soft lamplight, as rain beat on the windows.

“Oh, Aziraphale. It's beautiful. Anglo-Saxon?”

Aziraphale nodded, and smiled a little. “One owner from new,” he joked softly. “I held onto it, all these years. But I think it should be yours.”

“This isn't just a pretty gift,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Tell me,” Crowley said. “Tell me everything, angel, so it can be all right.”

Aziraphale folded his hands together to try and stop their shaking. It didn't work terribly well. “Well, you see.” Aziraphale swallowed. “I want you to know – I expect nothing in return. I...deserve nothing in return. But you should know, my dear.”

Crowley was patient, and how had Aziraphale forgotten how  _patient_ he was?

“You should know that I love you very much. The ring. Let it be a token. When you see it, if you would ever be so kind as to wear it – you may look at it and know I love you, with all my heart. I have been very foolish, and very selfish, and I know you can't love me back, but you should know. That you carry my heart with you, to do with as you please.”

Crowley's eyes were  _huge_ . Of course, his pupils didn't change, snake that he was, but the yellow had filled the sclera, and his mouth hung open a little.

Aziraphale smiled, sad and bitter. “It's all right. I don't deserve, well, any of you. I would never ask you to --”

“You don't have to ask, you bloody idiot! Where did you get it into your head that I'd ever stop loving you!” Crowley was starting to gesticulate – but only after he'd put his gift well out of harm's way. “Aziraphale, I have heard you say some _really_ stupid things in my time, but this takes the _cake_.”

“I like cake,” Aziraphale said, more or less out of reflex. This was not. What he had planned.

“I know,” Crowley sat back, and laughed, and it wasn't from joy. “Don't I know you as well as I know myself? Angel, darling, where did you get the idea that you were unlovable? That you didn't _deserve_ love?”

“Ah. Well. Between one thing and another, and well, you've met Gabriel, and, er, well. Everything?” he offered weakly.

“Well, I'm not bloody everything. Everything is wrong. Gabriel is _particularly_ wrong, just a big wrongy wrong...bastard.” Crowley finally settled on. “You are so lovable, angel. From the moment I saw you, you have been lovable.”

“Even in. Well. All those times I lectured you?”

“I didn't say likeable.” Crowley smiled, inviting him in on the joke. “Oh, you got on my tits plenty, and I'm sure I got on yours.”

“No, but you said we had to do that so we could tempt oh dear this is one of those colloquialisms I missed, isn't it?”

“Yes, angel.” Crowley's smile grew. “You love me.”

“Passionately. Desperately. With all of me,” Aziraphale said softly. “For quite some time, I think. It's just, I'm a coward.”

“No, you're not,” Crowley said. “We can talk about this later.” He thought a moment. “We will _definitely_ talk about this later. But for now – angel, I'll wear your ring with such joy. And in case you've not worked it out, I love you. Passionately. Desperately. With all of me.”

“How can you? I made you wait so long.”

“I had my best friend there, to help me while I waited for him,” Crowley said simply. “And because, well. You're _you_. There's nothing more to it. I love you. Always have, always will.”

“Oh. Oh my.” Aziraphale reached out his hands, where at least the shaking had lessened. It went away entirely when Crowley wrapped his own hands around Aziraphale's, strong, long fingers, bony and _there_.

“Satan, no wonder you're terrified. You thought I didn't love you and still...” Crowley shook his head, and went up on his knees, and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, their bodies somehow fitting together, him fitting neatly between the angel's legs, head even with his chest. He laid a kiss over Aziraphale's heart for good measure.

“Well. I was a fool.” Aziraphale allowed himself a small smile, that grew, his joy finally allowed out. “Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley laughed and hugged him tighter, laughing harder when Aziraphale practically hauled him into the angel's lap.

“We've caught up with each other,” Aziraphale murmured. “At long last.”

“I knew you'd get here,” Crowley said proudly, and, with gentle touch, turned Aziraphale's head to line up with his. “May I kiss you?”

“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale asked. “Only I'm not sure I really still have the knack—mph!”

Crowley was absolutely rude enough to cut Aziraphale off mid-sentence anytime he liked, but this, he thought, might be the best time of all.


	2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: description of blood, minor but bloody injury, burns.

“My dear, what was that sound?” Aziraphale – or more properly, Brother Francis – asked. He didn't look up from his work as Crowley came into the garden shed. _Someone_ had to get the lavender ready to be made into wands. He thought it might be an age-appropriate activity for their young charge, what with his mother's birthday coming up.

“Warlock. And Warlock's birthday present,” Crowley – Nanny Ashtoreth to others – said. 

“Good God!” Aziraphale finally looked up to see blood running down Crowley's arm, an ugly gash across it. There were burns on her hands, and lavender was forgotten. “My dear! Warlock --”

“Is fine, of course. I didn't even have to miracle it. Bloody little Anti-Christ. Ow!”

“But you're not. Fine, I mean. You're certainly bloody, poor dear.” Aziraphale reached for the pitcher of fresh water he kept in here, and a big enamel pan. First things first – wash the terrible bright blood away.

“What happened?” he asked, hands infinitely gentle as he tended to Crowley's. “I heard an explosion.”

“That's what happened,” Crowley sighed. “The Blammo! Rocket Kit With Added Fuel Fun For All Ages in small type Supervision Recommended.”

“And you were the supervision.” The cut on Crowley's forearm was wide but not deep, and the bleeding was already slowing. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. He could handle this easily, at least.

“Yes, well, now the butler's the supervision. He thinks you're taking me to A&E.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh dear.” The butler was Nanny Ashtoreth's greatest enemy. She maintained that he spoiled Warlock, and the rest of the family, by being nice and good at his job.

“Hurry it up, will you? Or he'll be teaching the boy to be good, and that's _you_.”

“This will take as long as it takes,” Aziraphale informed her. Brother Francis took his time, even with – _especially_ with – his beloved Nanny. Those burns were nothing to sneeze at.

He dried Crowley's hands and arms carefully, gentle on burned palms and holding the towel tightly around her arm for a moment, until the bleeding was down to seeping. “There,” he murmured. “You'll soon be right.”

“_Aziraphale_.” 

“Oh, hush you old bat.” Aziraphale took a moment – and the privacy of his sacrosanct shed – to kiss her cheek. “If I don't do this right it'll hurt and itch and you'll be more miserable than ever.”

“Pretty sure I can't get more miserable than this,” Crowley muttered, glaring at the inside of the shed. It was spacious, far more so than it looked from outside, and smelled of green things. Herbs were drying, hung from the rafters, and there were racks of neat garden tools, of all the bits and bobs Aziraphale had collected over the years. There were, of course, mugs of forgotten tea everywhere. The angel's identifying trail, as it were. Crowley had once tracked him across the entire estate, just going by temperature changes.

Aziraphale went over to one of the shelves, and carefully picked out a little jar of something he'd clearly made, and also a very modern tube of triple-antibiotic cream.

The cream was applied to the cut, Crowley's offended sounds of pain politely ignored, and a fresh strip of linen was put into use as a bandage, Aziraphale neatly pinning it off. He unrolled Crowley's sleeve and winced at the gash in the fabric, and the bloodstains.

“Oh, that won't do at all,” he murmured, and blew softly, returning it to crisp whiteness, pressed to perfection. He buttoned it gently around her wrist.

“Hands,” he said, and she turned her hands over. The burns were nasty, but not too serious, Aziraphale thought, looking them over carefully. His homemade salve and some more linen would do.

He was more careful than with the cut – Crowley's hands looked  _painful_ – heating the salve with a breath until it spread easily in a thin layer. “Better?” he asked.

“It's all right,” Crowley muttered. Good, the numbing agent was working.

Aziraphale made sure every bit of abused skin was treated, and wrapped Crowley's hands in loose bandages, just to keep everything neat and clean and give the salve a chance to work. “That will do for now,” he decided. “Come see me this evening, here, and I'll change out your bandages.”

“You don't have to do that,” Crowley muttered. “Waste of time.”

“I think it isn't,” Aziraphale said. He laid a hand on Crowley's waist, and kissed her softly. “Send Warlock to me. We'll have a little chat about explosives, and I'll take him for the afternoon. Lie down, my dear, and rest a little.”

“I certainly don't need--”

“You do,” Aziraphale said. “Besides, you had him all morning. Fair's fair.”

“Fair's fair,” Crowley mimicked, but she also sighed and rested her head on Aziraphale's shoulder for a moment. “Your whiskers are itchy.”

“That's not what you said in 1860,” Aziraphale said, turning and kissing her brow. “Go,” he said, slipping into Brother Francis' West Country burr. “Get a bit o' kip and send the boy to me.”

“Ugh,” Crowley said, but she also left, and Warlock was at the door to his shed not five minutes later.

Hah. Soft old snake.


	3. Human Shield

“No! My love, no!” Aziraphale shrieked, as the arrow meant for him instead plunged into Crowley's corporation. The foolish demon had flung himself in front of Aziraphale after sending the great beast fleeing to lick its wounds, and its master was intent on revenge. “You can't, no, no, no...” he moaned, as he knelt over the dying demon.

There were drops of red on Crowley's lips, and Aziraphale tenderly wiped them away. “Shh, shh, it'll be all right, I'll get you to safety.”

“No...” Crowley coughed, more flecks of red staining his lips, some landing on Aziraphale's sleeve. “It's too late. I can feel it.” Another weak cough. “I've only wounded the beast. You...you've got to run, angel.”

There was an unearthly howl, and the voice of the beast's master, commanding it to attack again.

“I won't leave you,” Aziraphale said. “I can't, don't ask me to...”

“Go.” Crowley pushed weakly at him. “Go and. And live for me. All right angel? Promise me?”

“Ask of me anything but that,” Aziraphaled moaned, hands clutching Crowley's jacket. There was no life for him without Crowley, he _knew_ that. “Foolish, foolish demon,” he whispered.

“Promise me!” The life was already fading from Crowley's eyes, and what was Aziraphale to do but promise him, and kiss him even as his lips stilled beneath Aziraphale's own.

The beast's horrific cries grew closer, and Aziraphale closed Crowley's eyelids, the last thing he could do for his best friend, his beloved.

“May we meet again in a better life,” he murmured, and rose, gathering his robes around him and making away. He had not even a token of his love, but it was too dangerous, and time was too short.

So lost in grief, the angel didn't even see the Valkyrie approaching.

“Hi-yahhh!” Pepper screamed, leaping onto Aziraphale's back and dramatically stabbing him with her knife. She'd asked for a proper one for her birthday and instead got this stupid plastic thing, but the blade _did_ retract into the handle, so she guessed it was okay. It was the best for playing with, anyway.

“Acccckkkkk,” Aziraphale said, doing a deeply un-credible imitation of someone choking on his own blood. He staggered from side to side before collapsing onto Crowley. 

“Hah,” Pepper said, and stabbed him again. Aziraphale obligingly made an 'urk' noise and stuck his tongue out.

“No fair!” Brian said. “Adam and Dog and I were gonna get him!”

“You got Crowley,” Pepper argued. “And _I_ have the fun knife!”

“Actually, Beast _was_ supposed to kill him too. For poetic reasonance,” Wensleydale, who had scripted their little scene, announced to the gathered playactors.

“Yeah but they were getting all gross and mushy and lovey,” Pepper said, wrinkling her nose.

“We were being Shakespearean,” Crowley announced. 

“And doing a very good job of it too,” Aziraphale piped up. “Get off, Pepper, Crowley's elbow is about to stab me and it _doesn't_ retract into him.”

“Oh, right, yes well, it would only be in revenge for _landing_ on me,” Crowley said, as Pepper obligingly scrambled off and Aziraphale rolled away.

“Look at this! Berry stains!” Aziraphale showed Crowley his sleeve. “Really, my dear.”

“Nothing like it for emergency fake blood,” Crowley said, popping another raspberry into his mouth. He did wave at Aziraphale's sleeve, though, leaving it pristine. “You remember that, all you Them.”

“Yes, Crowley,” Brian said. He had been looking a little more worshipful than usual lately, and Aziraphale might have worried for the state of his soul except that, well, it was _Crowley_. Not exactly the type to lead a young soul to hell.

Besides, Crowley's general neatness and cleanliness seemed to be having a good influence on the boy. Aziraphale had never met a child who was quite as  _sticky_ as Brian was.

With the angel and demon properly defeated, and the argument over who was  _supposed_ to defeat them totally unsettled, everyone decided that it was past time for ice cream. Various costume bits were shed and returned to their rightful owners – mostly Aziraphale, his penchant for collecting clothes through the ages resulting in the world's only dress-up box that contained a genuine, original,  _robe anglaise_ in hand-embroidered silk.

(Many, many years later, Pepper would come across a photograph in a book, and require a rather strong drink because she had definitely rescued Princess Crowley wearing a nearly identical gown. She had torn part of it in the rescue, but Aziraphale just shrugged and assured her it was an old thing, and anyway it never had fit him right.)

Aziraphale and Crowley trailed behind their young friends, holding hands in the deep and abiding hope that it would annoy the living shit out of R.P. Tyler. They stayed for ice cream – strawberry for Aziraphale, chocolate for Crowley – and bid the Them goodbye after informing them that no, they would not be getting a ride in the Bentley and definitely would not be  _driving_ the Bentley.

“_I_ don't even drive the Bentley,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“But my uncle taught me to drive his tractor, and it can't be _that_ different,” Pepper reasoned. “Besides, Aziraphale, I've seen you on a bicycle. I wouldn't let you drive the Bentley either.”

“She's not wrong,” Crowley said, in response to the mute appeal for assistance. 

“I'm way better on a bike,” Pepper said.

“Still not driving,” Crowley said. “Right.” He touched one finger to his temple. “Mrs. Patterson's away in Dorking to see about her oh _my_. Ah. On business. Her plum trees have just ripened to perfection.”

“Thanks Crowley!” Adam called, leading the way for a plum-raiding party. 

“Don't forget to drop a few! They'll ferment and the squirrels will get drunk!” Crowley called after him.

“Oh for goodness' sake, dear,” Aziraphale fussed, as they headed for the car.

Crowley had on his best shit-eating grin. “Aw, it'll be fine. Mrs. Patterson is having a  _very_ good day out.”

“I don't want to know,” Aziraphale said, closing his eyes tightly as they reached the car. “I truly don't.”

Crowley just smirked. He'd wait til they were just about in London, to let the angel know just what Mrs. Patterson was up to. Madam Tracy had  _nothing_ on her.

They settled in the car, and Crowley was about to start her up when he felt Aziraphale's hand on his leg, just above his knee.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale smiled, and squeezed. “Oh, nothing, not really. Just.” He looked over at Crowley, and leaned in and kissed him. “I quite love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” Crowley said, a little puzzled but smiling. “I er. I. Had fun today.”

“Oh! I...I did too.” Aziraphaled blushed and smiled. “Perhaps we both should have been actors.”

Crowley imagined this for a moment.

“I don't think so,” he said frankly. “But I did like dying dramatically.”

“You're very good at it,” Aziraphale said. “Did I do all right, you think?”

“Oh, wonderfully, wonderfully,” Crowley assured him. “That little urk sound you made? That was genius.”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far,” Aziraphale said modestly. “But I did try.” He smiled. “I am rather glad I have you, you know,” he said, eventually winding his way to his point. “Would be pretty dull. Doing this on my own.”

“Oh, shut up, angel,” Crowley said. Of course, he then pulled Aziraphale into his arms for a good, long, tender kiss. To make sure he didn't say anything else horrifically embarrassing, of course.


	4. Broken Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: serious character injury (he gets better), violence that's a bit worse than canon but not described in-depth, mention of blood.

Crowley had been right. The Apocalypse (that wasn't) hadn't been the Big One.  _This_ was the big one, when Heaven and Hell joined forces to fight – well, everyone else. Mostly humans, of course. Some of the great Teachers through the ages, who were ethereal or occult or what-have-you, joined the humans on their side, of course. The myths came true; Aziraphale had seen King Arthur on the battlefield, risen as had been promised. (He also carefully avoided any eye contact – he'd rather been on the outs when he came back from fomenting peace.) Owain Glyndwr was there too, who luckily Aziraphale did  _not_ have to avoid, and others he remembered from millennia past.

And of course, he and Crowley fought on the side they had chosen, over and over. They were partners in this, as in all things, wings huge and divine and occult energy crackling.

They had had a thousand years, in the end. A thousand years together, while Heaven and Hell planned and they roamed the earth, and then the galaxies (just a bit), and loved one another with everything they were. A thousand years, and it came to an end _here_. On Badon hill, of all places, where the sides met one last time.

It was all his own fault, Aziraphale said later, but only when Crowley was unconscious and couldn't hear him. (A thousand years of loving, on top of six thousand of best friendship, gave one a good idea of what would drive one's companion into incoherent angry argument.) He had been fighting Gabriel, who had  _his_ sword, and Crowley had been covering his back.

Gabriel got him on the ground and it looked to be over, the screams and bloodshed around them fading as he raised the sword and Aziraphale looked his own death in the face.

Crowley roared an incoherent scream, a sound of horror and rage Aziraphale had never heard before, and he exhaled fire as he had done all those centuries before. This time, though, he blew hard and fast, and Gabriel was engulfed in hellfire, destroyed before their eyes.

“Fiend!” 

Aziraphale had hardly had time to rise when Michael was there, her spear already moving. It pierced Crowley's thighs, and he screamed in pain and rage and fear.

“No!” Aziraphale's voice was strong and steady as he rose to his feet, flaming sword in hand. 

Michael didn't stand a chance, and he cut her down with a single blow, easy as a scythe cutting straw at harvest.

Aziraphale dropped to his knees by Crowley, already weeping. “No, no, no,” he said, voice raw. “You can't. It's not fair. You can't die. We haven't had enough time.”

“Seven thousand years, love.” Crowley coughed, wet and bloody. “We got more than almost anybody.”

“Not enough. We were supposed to have forever.” Aziraphale's voice broke on the last word. “I won't let you die.”

“I'd argue, but I think you might not.” Crowley smiled weakly. “It hurts. Zira, it hurts so bad.”

“Shhh, shh, I know. Oh, my love.” Aziraphale touched his brow, tried to take the pain, hoped he got most of it. “I need to – the spear.”

Crowley nodded. “Angel, if I don't make it.”

“Shut up!”

“If I don't _make it_. I love you. I love you forever. You know that, but I got to say it.”

“Shut up,” Aziraphale said. He'd have to push the spear the rest of the way through, finish what Michael started, and perhaps kill his beloved in the process. Well, it wasn't like he didn't have enough blood on his hands.

He set the flaming sword aside – again – and grasped the spear right behind the head, where it was slick with Crowley's blood. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I love you, my darling.” And he pulled.

Crowley's scream was worse than before, but it was out and there was hope. Not here, not on this cursed battlefield, but Aziraphale had only grown his knowledge over the years, and he knew not only the world, but things outside of it now.

He took the flaming sword in one hand and got his other arm around Crowley. The battle was ending, and dead littered the world around him. Of course, Heaven and Hell would fall; Aziraphale knew such things, the way he hadn't truly _known_ that Good would triumph over Evil. That only happened in stories, and anyway the most human of boys had defeated Heaven and Hell both once before. Of course other humans could defeat them again, for a final time.

So Aziraphale had no guilt over what he did next; he and Crowley had given their all, and his love was bleeding out, so he took him to safety.

Not Alpha Centauri – that was too easy. No, he found a comet, a small one, far on the edge of the galaxy. It had heralded no kings and foretold no doom, but there was a cliff and it was dark and cold but for the little ball of light and warmth Aziraphale made them, plunging his sword into the hard ice and alien rock.

He lay Crowley down on the soft feather mattress dressed with velvet, and stanched the wounds on his thighs. Oh, poor Fisher King – Michael knew how to hit where it hurt, or so she had thought, Aziraphale guessed. But demons didn't work that way, and the attempt at gelding wouldn't touch Crowley's power.

Healing this was beyond him, but Aziraphale could bandage the wounds, and he could wait. Crowley's heartbeat was weak, but it it kept up a thready rhythm, and no one would care to look for them here. Hell had abandoned them long ago, of course, and now there were no angels left, Aziraphale thought. Except, perhaps, for him.

He smiled a little at that – in theory, it ought to be lonely, to be the last of one's kind, but he wasn't. The world would be there for them, and he still had Crowley, and so he was not alone, and not afraid.

There was, of course, no time on the comet, certainly no day or night, but only waiting. Crowley's heart stopped once, for a long, frightening breath, and then started up again, stronger than ever, and Aziraphale lay down beside him and let himself weep for the hope he had again.

After a time, Crowley opened his eyes and smiled. “Did you fight Death?' he asked weakly.

“No, love, not this time.” Aziraphale smoothed Crowley's hair off of his brow. It was short again, a warrior's cut, but his fringe still long enough to flop into his eyes. “Did you?”

“I don't think so.” Crowley closed his eyes again. “Where are we?”

“Someplace safe. I'll take us home again soon.”  
“Battle's over,” Crowley observed. “Who won?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, and leaned over, and kissed him softly. “We did, darling. Shut your eyes and rest. When you wake up, we'll be home.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Crowley mumbled, and squinted suddenly. “Aziraphale, isn't that your sword?”

“Mmmhmm. No, never you mind over that. You're lucky to be alive, but you'll have to heal the old-fashioned way.”

“Bleargh.” Crowley's eyes were drifting shut. “Doesn't hurt. Much.”

“Good, darling.” Aziraphale petted him to sleep, feeling old and powerful and very tired himself. But he had promised – so it was time to go home.

There wasn't, as such, an England any longer. But there was an island in the North Atlantic, and there was a cottage on it. The cottage had ivy on the facade, because Aziraphale fancied the effect it gave, and it had roses out front, because Crowley loved roses. It was small, and stone, and it was theirs, and as promised, the next time Crowley woke, it was in their own bedroom, with Aziraphale right beside him as always.

Months after The Big One was over, Aziraphale sat by the front window, watching spring come onto the world. It had been a hard winter for everyone – not least because humanity had lost the knack of efficient indoor heating again – but spring was coming. The world was moving on in a universe without angels or demons, except for one of each. But no one knew that, so that was all right.

Aziraphale looked up at the sound of hesitant footsteps. Crowley still limped heavily, and if they ventured out for more than a few hundred feet, needed a stick or to lean on Aziraphale's arm. But Crowley was healing; no wounded king he.

“Brooding again, angel?” he asked, coming over and leaning down for a kiss.

“I do not _brood_,” Aziraphale informed him, after delivering said kiss.

“Uh huh.”

“I don't! I am...merely thinking. Pondering. That sort of thing.”

“What are you thinking about, then?” Crowley stroked his back, running fingers along the inside of his shoulder blades, where his wings had been and now Aziraphale bore only scars.

Because they had changed too. Not become human, exactly, but the defeat of the angels and demons had had...ripple effects. The two of them had woken one night to blood and terror as Aziraphale screamed, his wings ripped away. The pain had been short and swift at least, and he was left gasping in Crowley's arms, bright weals on his back.

Every night, now, Crowley kissed his back and massaged oils into the scars, for all that Aziraphale insisted he was fine, and they didn't hurt him and he'd got those oils for _Crowley, _for goodness sake.

And Crowley – he had lost his demon eyes, and now looked out at the world with entirely human pupil and iris. His eyes were a beautiful clear brown, and the loss in night vision was made up for in not having to wear dark glasses, and being able to read with ease.

(He still made Aziraphale read aloud more often – he did the voices so well, after all.)

“I was thinking about summer,” Aziraphale said, leaning into Crowley's touch. “We can plant a garden. I think that would be nice.”

“I like gardens,” Crowley said reflectively. “Might need a bit of help, mind. Not sure I can get down in the dirt just yet.”

“You just tell me where to dig and what to put there,” Aziraphale assured him. He turned so he could kiss Crowley's belly. “Let's stay here this year?”

“Of course,” said Crowley. “That's the promise of a garden. You've got to stay to harvest it.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale leaned into him as Crowley leaned back, gentle apposite forces. “Quite right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really love the story of the Fisher King, and was interested in what would happen if someone tried that on Crowley...


	5. Dragged Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mention of serious injury, though not in any kind of depth, and it's quickly healed.

“What on Earth?” Aziraphale asked, coming to the entrance of his little hut. He had heard the children well before he saw them, of course, but hadn’t expected them to bring anything with them.

“We found a n'angel!” Aelfrith piped up.

“In the woods,” said Ethelred.

“Oh my goodness,” Aziraphale said, clearly still thinking the children were playing at games. Perhaps they’d found a dead swan or something.

A black swan.

A big one.

Oh no.

“Come in,” he said again, more sharply, when he saw more clearly what the travois they were dragging bore. “I shall tend them. Where was it? What happened?” He was supposed to be in _Denmark_, the bloody idiot.

He was supposed to be in Denmark _doing a miracle_. And a demonic working, but for goodness’ sake, they had _job security_ to worry about why had Aziraphale found the most ridiculous demon in the universe and decided oooh yes I’ll hitch myself to _that_ one, _honestly_.

“He was on a horse,” Aelfrith said.

“Well, his foot was,” Ethelred offered. “He fell off. Mostly.”

Aziraphale winced at the angle Crowley’s foot was at – for, yes, under the mud and blood and good heavens did the demon go through a thistle patch? And a bog, for that matter? Under everything, that was Crowley. Poor thing, perhaps it was best he was unconscious, that wasn’t going to be very nice until Aziraphale had healed it up.

“Goodness me,” Aziraphale said. “Where’s the horse?”

“Ran off,” Ethelred said. “I tried to catch it so I could be a knight but it was too fast.”

“And he was scared of the hooves!” Aelfrith said, absolutely all good will towards fellow men lost for the moment in the foolishness of a friend losing a whole _horse_.

“He was right to be,” Aziraphale said, as he helped them drag the travois inside and set it by the fire. “You’d do well, Aelfrith, to copy his caution, before I’ve got two who need physicking.”

“But you’re nice about it,” Aelfrith said. “You make people feel better. Not like the priest.”

“Hmm, well, never mind that,” Azriaphale said quickly. He was supposed to aid the priest, which was rather limited by the fact that he and Father Rock truly, deeply, and abidingly loathed one another. Made things a little awkward on Sunday services, and the rest of the time too for that matter.

He brushed Crowley’s hair back and sighed. There was a lot of healing ahead of him, best chase the boys off.

“Thank you for bringing him to me,” he said, and meant it. Option B…well, probably wasn’t the priest, thanks be to God, but the wise woman three villages over. Crowley wouldn’t die of his injuries, but human healing could only do so much, and wasn’t really known for creature comforts. “I think I’ve got something for two clever boys…”

His smile genuine, Aziraphale cut a bit of honeycomb for each of them. He’d found a bee-filled tree some days ago, and couldn’t resist; his own skeps only produced so much, and now he could share. And have plenty of honey on his bread too, for that matter.

He sent them on their way with their well-earned sweets, and settled by Crowley, sighing softly as he got to work. “My dear, you really need to leave horses be,” he murmured, straightening limbs and washing away mud and grime. He healed Crowley’s ankle first so that in case he came to right away, he would be in less pain.

Crowley's other injuries proved more minor – cuts and bruises that were washed and had poultices applied, but didn’t require a risky angelic healing. A rather nastier cut on his head; Aziraphale debated cutting Crowley’s hair and bandaging it the old-fashioned way, but the long red waves were so lovely, and well, fine. Call him a sentimental fool. He drew his finger across the bloody gash, and Crowley’s scalp knitted together, the fine flame-hair undisturbed.

Aziraphale gave him a good wash because most people in Britain in 794 needed one, frankly, and Crowley was no exception. It drove them both a bit crazy to be so grubby, especially with the memories of Roman Baths so recent. (Not to mention that they were frankly pretty free with the miracles to pop over to Istanbul for a day at the hamam.) No marble and steam here, but Aziraphale got his skin clean and glowing, and that would have to do.

He set about building the fire up a bit, urging the smoke to actually mostly make it outside and not linger inside the hut, as it was wont to do. A pot of water heating for any tisane Crowley might need (or want), he settled down to wait.

“Urgh.” Crowley’s face scrunched up and he lifted a hand to his forehead. “Ooof.”

“Slow,” Aziraphale said. “I had to do a few miracles.”

“Yarf. So that's why I taste frankincense.” Crowley stuck his tongue out and make a face.

“Believe me, this is better,” Aziraphale said dryly, moving to kneel by his wayward demon. “You can open your eyes, by the way, we’re quite alone.”

Crowley blinked his eyes open, and grinned up at Aziraphale. “Hi angel. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Indeed. You’re lucky that horse dragged you _here_. Some of the village children found you and brought you to me.”

Crowley went to sit upright, went ‘ooogh’, and lay back down quickly. “In a bad way?”

“I’ve seen you better,” Aziraphale conceded. “You’re probably going to ache a bit. Sorry.”

“No, no, fair enough, my own fault for trusting one of those bloody animals.” Crowley sighed, and closed his eyes. “Sorry, angel. Was headed for London. Beast tried to scrape me off with a tree branch. It only sort of worked.”

“So I gathered,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t apologize, dearest. It’s good to see you again.”

“You’re so soft,” Crowley said, and smiled, and opened his eyes again. “It’s good to see you too. Wife.”

Aziraphale gave him a little swat. “_Husband_, if you please.”

“Awww, but you’ve been my wife more often!”

“Two to one, and right now we’re both men, so husband. My husband.”

Crowley gave him a cheeky grin. “And wouldn’t the local priest like _that_ if we decided to get hitched again.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Ugh, that man. You could be the sweetest Christian wife in all creation and I don’t think he’d approve.[1]”

Crowley made a consoling sound, and another effort at sitting up, this time more successful. “Thanks for the bath, by the way. Kiss?”

Aziraphale smiled and leaned in, delivering the requested kiss. And another, as Crowley’s arms came around him, and he held his demon boy in turn, the two of them finding home again like this, the way they always had.

“I love you,” Crowley said. “Denmark’s all sorted, by the way.”

“Thank you, my dear. I love you too. Can you stay long?” They didn’t miss each other, exactly – they were still on the same _planet_ after all, so no matter where they were it was a bit like Crowley was just down the road, and anyway, they often wound up in the same city anyway. Or, in this case, the same small village.

“At least the winter,” Crowley promised him, and smiled at Aziraphale’s delight. “I’ve got a well-earned holiday coming, and anyway, if some locals saw me, I’d better be sure to stick around and recover.”

“You say that like we haven’t _both_ put the other in a convenient shallow grave,” Aziraphale said.

“Nah, that’s for midwinter, when I’m driving you crazy,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Besides, I could use a good bout of being an invalid.”

“Very demonic, to be that lazy, and have me run off my feet caring for you,” Aziraphale said.

“Aw, angel, no.” Crowley actually looked a bit sorry. “I’m not gonna cause more work for you.”

“Hush. I would love to care for you this winter, love.” Aziraphale pulled him into another embrace. “You really do need to heal a bit. And after that, well. It’s very private, here on the edge of things. And with the cold, people do rather stay in.”

Crowley smiled, and kissed him. “Clever angel.” He rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and reached up to play with his hair. “Will you _ever_ be fashionable?”

“No,” Aziraphale said honestly. “Besides, I like it short. I like how I look.”

“I like how you look too,” Crowley assured him, and kissed his jaw, where the skin was so soft, and there was the little bit of fat that made the cutest double chin when Aziraphale looked down. “You’re doing well.”

“As well as I can,” Aziraphale allowed. “How are things elsewhere? Bit of a backwater here,” he said wistfully.

“Not for long,” Crowley said. “That’s why I was coming to London, to find you. Things are changing, angel.”

“Aren’t they always?”

“Big things,” Crowley clarified. “Vikings. They’re starting to notice this lovely rich land right here, all ready for the taking.”

“Hundreds of micro-kingdoms spread across arable land? Goodness, wherever did they get that idea?” Aziraphale asked dryly.

“Don’t be tacky, dear, it doesn’t suit you. They raided Lindisfarne. Not the first, won’t be the last. Winter camps right now of course – no one’s going to fight in this muck. I don’t know how long it’ll take them to get down here, maybe a century or two. But we should prepare, in case they move fast. Those ships…”

Aziraphale nodded. “Point taken. I am to stay here until reassigned elsewhere, apparently there’s a need for miracles among the common people. I can make sure they know to expect an end to peace,” he added softly. “Even if it takes a century or two. They’ll have stories.”

Crowley nodded, and lay down again – drawing Aziraphale with him. “Peace never does last.”

“And whose fault is that, demon?”

“The _humans_,” Crowley said, and pinched him. “You think we wouldn’t find things easier without wars breaking out all over?”

“I think _you_ would find things easier,” Aziraphale told him, and snuggled a little closer. It was so good to be back with Crowley. “Don’t let’s argue. Not on our first day back together.”

“Nor the second,” Crowley said. “Nor many others after that.” He tilted Aziraphale’s chin up and kissed him. “Not about anything important, anyway.”

“Agreed.” Aziraphale kissed him back, tender with a bruise on Crowley’s cheekbone. “Before I get comfortable, are you truly feeling all right? I can doctor you some if you need it, without angelic miracles.”

“I’ll do,” Crowley assured him. “Stay with me a bit. That will do me just fine.”

“Of course, dear heart.” Azirphale squirmed his arms around Crowley and held him gently. The pallet by the fire wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was warm and dry, and Crowley was back in his arms, and would soon be well after his latest misadventure. Couldn’t ask for much more than that.

1They had gotten married, so far, three times since the invention of formal, ritual recognition of coupling. Once on necessity, to escape some local ire, and twice for the fun of it. Aziraphale always rather enjoyed the actual ceremony, and of course the feast that usually followed. Crowley liked watching Aziraphale take it all in and, except for that time they’d had a church wedding and his mind had been on his stinging feet, was rather fond of the promises they’d made to each other.

(He told everyone it was because he was clearly staining the soul of one of the Heavenly Host, dragging Aziraphale down to his level and surely because they were promising to join themselves, some of his demonic stain was leaking over, really boys, it’s all to Hell’s plan.

Aziraphale, for his part, didn’t tell anyone anything.

Between the two of them, though – it was for love, and no more needed to be said.)[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story inspired by my love of the idea of them just being deeply, weirdly married over millennia, and how much I both like and am terrified of writing them into historical situations.
> 
> I play a *little* fast and loose with timelines, and probably common names, but I maintain that if King Arthur could exist, I can rely more on narrativium than on our actual history.


	6. Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I don't think there are any content warnings needed for this chapter, but never hesitate to drop me a line. I will always take you seriously.)

Aziraphale liked his solitude. Of course, he enormously enjoyed the pleasures of the world, and was happy when Crowley accompanied him, or perhaps a few select humans over the ages, but honestly, he was just as happy to enjoy the world on his own, too.

He had lived a life blessedly mostly free of other angels, and suspected that was not supposed to make him happy, but well. Something _happened_ when he was around the other angels, he went over more nervy than usual and stumbled on his words and was stupid. So it was best they avoid each other. Especially given Sandalphon's little tricks, which, well, Aziraphale may not have been a _comedian_ or anything, but they weren't funny, he was pretty sure. Not even a bit.

So. He was a solitary angel, and rather liked it; there were always books and stories for companionship, and the relief of no one seeing him be awkward, or nervous, or doing something the wrong way. (Crowley was the only exception to this. Being a demon, he had no standing to judge, and anyway he only teased about things Aziraphale didn't much mind about, and cheerfully took Aziraphale's teasing in turn.

Aziraphale had once tricked Sandalphon back, and the less said about how that ended, the better.)

So you'd think that he would never get lonely.

You'd be wrong.

It had been a dreadful couple of decades. Aziraphale had been called back to heaven for most of the nineteen-nineties, and just, ugh. He had mostly been left alone there, which shouldn't have been so bad, but there were no books, and it was cold and white and time didn't pass in the right way. When he was finally redeployed to Earth, he spent a solid week in the still-closed bookshop, reading voraciously and nearly drowning himself in tea, cocoa and wine, depending on the time of day.

And then, a week later, before they'd hardly had time for more than a single lunch that was mostly taken up by bitching about their respective head offices, Crowley had gone and got himself discorporated. It had taken _years_ for him to complete the paperwork, and meanwhile Aziraphale watered his plants and tried to keep them going and fretted about, well, everything.

Hard on the heels of Crowley showing up again was the whole Warlock thing, and for all that they technically lived together, it wasn't as though they'd have lunch out regularly or anything, between the young boy and the gardens and, well, technically working against each other. Very purposefully so, of course, but it wouldn't do to spend time with the Enemy when she was very specifically being Enemy-ish.

(Even if she was startlingly lovely, and watching her care for Warlock did things to Aziraphale's heart, as happened every time Crowley was around children.)

So for decades, everything had been dreadful. It was, compared to Aziraphale's lifespan, nothing. Or it should have been. But decades without his best friend, and the stress and worry and terror of the Apocalypse – it all built up.

Which was why Aziraphale was in Crowley's flat watering his plants and trying to not curl up on the floor and sob his heart out.

Crowley was travelling for a week – Oktoberfest, he'd said, just a bit of fun and maybe a little demoning on the side to keep in practice. The concept of a hall full of beer-drunk humans crammed in and probably all screaming had, in turn, sent Aziraphale screaming. Metaphorically. In reality, he'd told Crowley to go on without him and he'd hold down the fort in London, so to speak. Besides, he didn't want to seem...clingy. And it was a _week_. That was nothing at all. Crowley regularly took _naps_ that lasted longer.

But now Crowley wasn't here, wasn't even on the same landmass, and his flat was huge and cold and echoing. The plants were beautiful, but they couldn't cut how _cold_ it was in here, and it felt like heaven and that was why Aziraphale was on his knees in the middle of the great sunny _freezing_ room, crying his eyes out.

Because he was _alone_ and it _hurt_. He was cut off from everything – Heaven, which wasn't so bad but it was because he was supposed to belong and be beloved by his fellow angels. Earth, because he wasn't human and he was _weird_ and for some reason that suddenly hurt, not to mention that he was literally cut off, in this flat high in the air, because Crowley liked penthouses. And his Crowley, his best friend and beloved, was off having fun as was absolutely right, but Aziraphale _missed_ him. And he was cold, and alone, and he hated it.

And he was useless, which was why he was curled on the floor, and crying. No _wonder_ he felt isolated, he'd pretty well brought this on himself, hadn't he?”

“_Aaaangel_!” Came a call from somewhere else. “You here? Came home early!”

Aziraphale looked up, but there wasn't enough time to dry his eyes and get up and paste on a smile, and so he got the added treat of seeing horror and fear descend on Crowley's face as he caught sight of Aziraphale. Bloody wonderful.

Seconds later, he was wrapped in demonic arms, black wings snapped up to cut them off from the world, and all he could see was Crowley's golden eyes.

“What's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt? Who did this to you?”

Aziraphale just shook his head. Too many questions, and all his answers were stupid. At least it was warmer here, held against Crowley's body, his wings acting like a blanket against the world.

“All right,” He felt Crowley take a deep breath, felt him adjust his arms so he held Aziraphale a little more gently, and could rest a hand on the back of his head. “Shhh, then, don't mind me. I'm here. I love you. Everything's going to be all right.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“I love you,” Crowley repeated, softer still. “Poor angel. Whatever it is, we'll take care of it. Slowly. Shall I, uh, make us...tea?” he hazarded. Crowley was simultaneously wonderful and terrible at comforting, and Aziraphale loved him all the more for it.

He shrugged.

“Brandy?”

Aziraphale smiled and nodded. “I think that would be good,” he said, forcing his unused voice into action. His words shook, but he got them out.

“Brandy is always good,” Crowley said. “Come with me.” He kept an arm and a wing around Aziraphale, gently walking him into the kitchen. He paused in the corridor and did something to a small box, and Aziraphale heard fans start up. “Sorry, my fault. Should have turned on the heat before I left. Honestly, it's a miracle you're not an ice cube.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and blinked. “Central heating. Right. I'm an idiot.”

“Only because you don't like Fellini,” Crowley said casually, heading for the kitchen again.

“I have _told_ you--” Aziraphale smiled suddenly, the old argument rather like a well-loved cardigan. “Oh, Crowley.”

“There you are,” Crowley said, tension easing out of him. “That's my angel. Go and sit, I'll be with you in a moment.”

And he was – it was quick work to pour them each a snifter, and the first sip burned through all the cold and sadness and loneliness beautifully. Nearly as much as the demon before him.

“First, tell me that you're safe and unhurt.”

“I am. I'm so sorry, Crowley. I would never have let you see me that way.”

“Why?” Crowley looked a little...hurt. Oh, had Aziraphale screwed up _again_? “I want to help. Our own side and all that, right?” He paused. “That's what that means,” he said again, gentler. “We help each other.” Unlike our old sides, he didn't say, but Aziraphale heard anyway.

“It's very stupid,” Aziraphale said.

“All right. You've been stupid before and survived. So have I, for that matter.”

Aziraphale took another sip and smiled at him. “I love you, Crowley.”

“Is that a statement or why you were crying? Because, I mean, I wouldn't blame you...” Ah, and there was that sly grin, the one Aziraphale had loved for thousands of years.

“You, stop,” he said, giving Crowley a gentle little kick under the table. “You know absolutely well that isn't why I was crying.” He sighed, and smiled, self-deprecating. “I was. Well. I was _lonely_. I felt...isolated.” He shook his head. “I'm not used to feeling that way, and I suppose it took me by surprise.”

“Lonely?” Crowley frowned and reached for his hand. “Forgive me, angel, but I've only been gone a few days.”

“I know! But I think it was. Oh, what's the expression. The straw that broke the camel's back?”

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale explained the rest of the bale of straw.

“So it's very silly. But there you are,” he concluded, having worked his way back through his near-decade in Heaven's cold embrace. “I do beg your pardon. I really didn't want to welcome you home this way.”

“I didn't think so,” Crowley said, and squeezed his hand. “Poor angel. I'm sorry. Not for leaving, but because you've ever felt lonely. You shouldn't be. I'm not the only one that loves you.”

“Oh, now really --”

“I'm not,” Crowley interrupted. “We have friends. _You_ have friends.”  
“Acquaintances.”

Crowley shrugged, not one to argue at the moment. “Whatever. We'll work on that.” He lifted Aziraphale's hand to his lips. “And I'm home, and not inclined to leave you for a good long while, incidentally.” He smiled, a little shy. “I missed you too, Aziraphale. The centuries might fly by, but the days go slow.”

“We really are going native,” Aziraphale said, smiling back. The air was warm now, humid from the houseplants, and he felt everything relax. “Shall we go out to dinner tonight? Welcome you home?”

“Remind you that you're not alone?” Crowley winked at him. “I'd like that very much. We've got some time, though. Finish your brandy, and we can find a nice soft surface. I'd like to kiss you. A lot.”

Aziraphale blushed prettily, and he did _not_ throw his glass back in one, because that would be an insult to Crowley's alcohol collection, but he did drink, perhaps, a touch faster.

The soft surface turned out to be Crowley's bed, and Crowley's wings around him, and they did indeed kiss quite a lot, and hold one another, and promise love with words and hands and touch.

In the end, dinner was postponed to a night when it didn't seem quite so important to hold one another close against the world, in Crowley's soft bed with the fluffy duvet and all the pillows Aziraphale could sneak in, in his warm flat, London glittering like a jewel-box beneath them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the more personal things I've written, in ways that surprised me.


	7. Stab Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: description of past serious injury to a major character,description of a large scar.

“You _stabbed_ me!” Crowley shrieked.

“Oh for the love of --” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I did not.”

“Look at this,” Crowley said, holding out his hand where Aziraphale had perhaps _accidentally_ made contact with Crowley's skin in his eagerness to get a particularly scrummy-looking strawberry. It had been Crowley's idea to share the bloody trifle in the first place.

“You are a child,” Aziraphale informed him, hiding a smile. Crowly in a goofy, dramatic mood was a thing to be cherished. Against all common sense. And decency.

God, what a terrible thing it was to be in love. It meant he found Crowley _adorable_ like this, which was something no thinking being should ever do.

And, even worse, it meant he grabbed hold of Crowley's hand and kissed the small red mark that was already fading. “There,” he said. “All better.”

Crowley opened his mouth and Aziraphaled leaned in with a kiss there too, because he wasn't _stupid_.

“Happy?” he asked, when the kiss ended, quite some time later.

Crowley wobbled his hand back and forth. “I'll do,” he said cheerfully. And, “Oooh, blueberries!” He speared a few, got quite a bit of whipped cream too, and held them out for Aziraphale.

Who, of course, obligingly ate off of Crowley's fork. “Scrummy,” he announced, when he'd finished the mouthful. “Absolutely lovely. Thank you, dear.”

Crowley grinned, and peace reigned while they finished their treat. An after-dinner brandy set them off remembering old times, and planning for new ones. Aziraphale _did_ so want to stay in London until the Ashes was over, but then he thought he might get itchy feet. Crowley pretty much always had itchy feet, for all that he loved their patch, and they were London and London was them.

“America?”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Too loud.”

Crowley shook his head. “Someday I'll take you someplace quiet there. Glacier National Park. The prairie.”

“Bears,” Aziraphale said. “Eurgh.”

“Right, America's out,” Crowley sighed.

“Marrakech,” Aziraphale said suddenly. “When was the last time we were –“

“Oh, too long,” Crowley said, lighting up. “_Good_ angel. Marrakech.”

“We must stop by the markets – this rug is getting a bit motheaten,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to a textile that, while not quite the Ardabil Carpet, was certainly of similar age. He had bought it when he opened the shop, and it was an antique even then.

“And the food,” Crowley said. “I distinctly remember you liked the food.”

“And _you_ liked the souks.”

Crowley smiled, memories piling through, the way the city had changed and not changed. “I liked all of it. Sorted. Marrakech, as the seasons turn, then?”

“Oh, please.” Aziraphale smiled. “A nice, long holiday. Back for Guy Fawkes' Night.”

“Done and done,” Crowley said, and kissed Aziraphale's fingertips.

A few more plans were made, but Crowley started to yawn, and Aziraphale had longing thoughts of, not quite sleep, but definitely reading while Crowley slumbered beside him. Sometimes the demon snuggled up close and used Aziraphale's thigh for a pillow, and he loved that best of all.

“Angel, what on earth's _that_?”

Aziraphale was tempted to make a very smart remark about Efforts or lack thereof (because ugh why bother?), when he felt a familiar twinge in his hip and looked down.

“Oh, bugger, that's back.” He sighed and poked the gnarled scar that twisted from his belly over his side and down the front of his hip and thigh. “Been ages since it showed in this corporation.”

“_What_?” Crowley's voice scaled up. “What is it? What happened to you? Are you hurt? Does it hurt now? Why would it show up on your corporation?”

He was flailing a bit, wearing one sock and a vest and nothing else, and Aziraphale was definitely caught between laughing, which would be very cruel, and giving him a snuggle, which would result in a very cold demon bum and therefore be rather cruel in its own way.

“Get your pyjamas on dear, it's chilly tonight,” he said. “And I'll explain everything.”

Crowley frowned and came over instead, pressing his hand to the ugly scar. “Just promise me you're not hurting?”

“Oh, darling.” Aziraphale laid his hand over Crowley's. “A very distant ache. Which will ease away once I'm in bed, I'm sure. It generally does.”

Crowley gave him a suspicious look, snapped his fingers, and they were both in their pyjamas. Aziraphale noticed Crowley had given him new ones. Heavy, smooth silk instead of his simple cotton, and a very pretty pale blue they were.

“Thank you,” he said politely. “But you know silk makes me go all slippy.”

“That's the point,” Crowley said, but snapped again, and a light, brushed flannel in the same colour happened.

“You're getting a bit free with the old miracles,” Aziraphale chided gently.

“I'm worried,” Crowley said bluntly, crawling into bed beside him and looping his arms around Aziraphale's waist. “Tell me what happened? That scar is awful.”

Aziraphale stroked his hair and kissed him for good measure. This wasn't going to be the nicest story. “It is, yes. Hurt like stink when I got it. It's from, er. The Big One. The first Big One.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, going very still. “When, ah. The Fall.”

“Yes, love.” Aziraphale sighed. “I was...fighting.” He gave a little shudder. “Do you remember it much?”

“No,” Crowley said honestly. “I think I was, erm. Kicked out. Early on.”

Aziraphale hugged him tightly, and kissed the tattoo on his cheek, very pointedly. “It was dreadful, of course. I mean, I know I hate war and fighting and awful things like that, but it was really, just...” He shuddered.

“Shh, you don't need to tell me,” Crowley said. “War, Heaven, Hell, you with your sword, someone else...with a sword?” he hazarded.

“Pretty much,” Aziraphale said. “Fighting. They stabbed me, found that hole in my defences – I mean, _you_ know, we've fenced enough.”

Crowley made an annoyed sound. “So you mean you've left that wide-open Please Stab Me hole since _time began_?”

“Er. Perhaps.” Aziraphale smiled. “Nasty wound, of course, you saw how big it was.”

Crowley skooched up the edge of Aziraphale's shirt and touched the twisting scar. “Very nasty,” he said softly. “Poor angel.”

“Poor angel,” Aziraphale agreed. “That was nearly the end of me, I don't mind telling you. I came to in the field hospital, more or less to the surprise of everyone.”

Crowley made a sad, ugly sound, and Aziraphale pulled him so he could wrap arms and legs around his demon. “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have...put it that way.” He kissed Crowley's forehead, between those pretty golden eyes. “But I did wake up, love. It was a long time healing, but I did.”

“'Course you did,” Crowley said, and stiffened suddenly. “Aziraphale,” he said, voice urgent. “Do you remember who did it? Did you see them?”

“Not clearly, why? Oh, Crowley. Absolutely not. There's no sense in...avenging me, or whatever you're thinking.”

Crowley shook his head.

“_Crowley_.”

“No, it's not that,” he tried to explain, words falling over each other. He took a deep breath and hid his face in Aziraphale's shoulder. “It's. I. I don't remember much. But I did fight. Badly. But I always found your weakness. And. Was...it me? Could it have been me?” he asked, each word fighting to get out, feeling sick. If _he_ had done this, to his most beautiful, most beloved angel...

“Oh, sweetheart, no. It couldn't have been you, I promise.” Aziraphale said, and hesitated. “I. Um. I...killed them. The one who. Er.” He shuddered. “I remember that. So it couldn't have been you, since you're alive and right here and I love you so.”

“You sound sorry, but you should know I'm not,” Crowley said, easing in his relief. “Glad you had the sense to defend.”

Aziraphale grunted, and Crowley took the gentle warning for what it was. Besides, he had his angel to tend to.

He touched Aziraphale's hip, feeling the scar even through the fabric of his pyjamas. “You absolutely promise me it doesn't hurt you any longer?”

“I promise,” Aziraphale said. “I'm sorry, I've startled you. It does show up in this corporation from time to time. Don't be shocked if it fades in a few years.”

Crowley nodded. “All right.” He touched the length of it, following the twisting scar with a fingertip, and kissed Aziraphale. “I love you.”

“And I, you. Come, sweetheart. Snuggle up and drift off, you were so tired downstairs,” Aziraphale said, urging him into lying down. “Yes, you can use me as a pillow on that side, you silly thing.” He paused. “Unless, ah. You don't want to...feel it...it's quite ugly, I know.”

Crowley gave him the dirtiest look he could muster up without actually going all demony-face, and it was still pretty impressive.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but held his peace as Crowley settled down. He turned out all of the lights but for the small one he read by, and started in on the biography of Bach that was filling his nights lately.

He paid only half-attention, with apologies to the author, until he was sure that Crowley was deeply asleep, at ease and at peace, his head just where the scar curved around Aziraphale's leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, I know what GNeil said, but Death of the Author rules you guys, and I love that headcanon going around that Aziraphale limps after he's been discorporated because he got an injury when it was angels against demons.
> 
> (Will I ever get bored and write a version of this where it *is* Crowley that injures him? Eh, probably.)


	8. Shackled

“Oh, thank you my dear,” Aziraphale said as the chains slipped free. Humans had just _invented_ chains, and the angel had accidentally wound up on the wrong side of a small border dispute. Considering humans had also just invented borders, it was something of a feat, Crowley thought.

“Oh goodness, your timing is wonderful,” Aziraphale said as the ropes loosed from his wrists and fell away. At least he was doing the miracle himself, Crowley was just a very large snake-shaped distraction for the people who for _some reason_ gosh angel can't _imagine_ why invented ransoms when they kidnapped the man in richly-embroidered robes.

(What they actually got was an angel without a real coin in the world, and his demonic Adversary who was dumb, dumb, why was Crowley so  _dumb_ about this angel?)

“Cheers for that,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, as Crowley released the heavy metal shackles. “This one's your fault, by the way. They thought I was a demon.”

“Is that why there's an evil eye scratched onto these?” Crowley asked, examining the bands of iron.

“Mmm. Dinner? My treat.”

“It had better be,” Crowley said. “Honestly, how you keep getting into this situation...”

“It's not my fault!” Aziraphale protested.

“Still not my fault,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley dragged him out of the shallow pond, where he'd been chained up and thrown to drown.

“That's not what local gossip says,” Crowley said, releasing the links and helping Aziraphale stretch out a bit. He'd been under the water for quite some time, and it was a lucky thing they didn't actually need to breathe.

“Well, really, it's not _my_ fault that they think bathing induces demons,” Aziraphale grumped. “God, I miss the Romans.”

“Love a good bath, me,” Crowley said reflectively. “There you go, good as new.”

Aziraphale sighed happily, gave a little wriggle, and his clothes were dry again.

They left the Bastille quietly. Even  _Crowley_ was low-key, for once in his whole entire existence. Best not to attract attention and all that. And besides, they had crepes to get, for even in the midst of a bloody revolution, one had to eat.

“Honestly, I'm starting to think you _enjoy_ being tied up,” Crowley muttered, when they were far enough away that they could relax a bit.

“I don't,” Aziraphale said waspishly. “I told you, it's not my fault.”

“Angel. I saw what you were wearing.”

“Yes, and I looked rather wonderful I thought.” Aziraphale smiled, remembering the gleaming silks. Good thing he had another version of that get-up at home in London, though with warm undertones to the white rather than cool. Wouldn't do to be repetitive.

“Well, yes, that cut does flatter you but _oh no_ don't you _smile_ at me! It nearly got you discorporated!”

“Nearly. But I am still here, head on shoulders, and oh, the loveliest restaurant is just along here, Crowley, they're still open and everything!”

“Still think you enjoy this,” Crowley muttered.

“I really don't,” Aziraphale said firmly. Unconsciously, he rubbed his wrists.

“Oi. Stop. Let me see,” Crowley demanded, tugging Aziraphale into a handy doorway. He hissed when he saw the angel's wrists – after a short wrestle, Aziraphale insisting that he was just fine when he _wasn't_.

The soft, pale skin was bruised and broken, ugly raw patches where the irons had rubbed too hard, and bruises where they had been too heavy.

“It's nothing,” Aziraphale said. “Soon heal up.”

Crowley gave him a dirty look. “I don't do things halfway,” he informed Aziraphale, and cradled his wrists in his own hands. He exhaled carefully, and Aziraphale's skin knitted back together, bruises faded, and his wrists were –

Crowley swallowed a little. He wanted so badly to kiss, to soothe the memory of pain away. Aziraphale's wrists were lovely, he thought. Soft and a little plump and so pale that when he turned them over to check, he could see blue veins running under the thin skin. Far too vulnerable to even a harsh touch –  _why_ was Aziraphale's corporation so soft and sweet? It shouldn't be allowed.

“There,” he said. “Now it's done properly. Where's this restaurant, angel?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said politely, and they both ignored how his voice quivered a little. “Just a bit further, I think.”

They'd got through lunch and gone their separate ways when it occurred to Crowley that this was probably not the first time Aziraphale's unfortunate past time had left a mark. He cursed himself for a fool – he'd have to be careful to check, and heal, when it happened again. Because it would definitely happen again. People seemed rather dedicated to tying Aziraphale up.

(Not that he could blame them, at least for the mechanics of it. But  _he_ would make it nice and not hurt. Well, unless asked.)

“You were right, by the way,” Crowley said as he lounged on the bench, enjoying Aziraphale's corporation while they waited for the crowds to thin a bit. “It's not very nice. Being tied up.”

“I did _tell_ you,” Aziraphale said, and it was rather funny to hear his own voice in that plummy accent. He didn't even know his spine could _go_ that straight. It never did when _he_ was in his body, anyway.

“What did they use?” Aziraphale asked, a little gentler now.

“Tape on my mouth,” Crowley said. “And rope on my wrists. Nasty stuff.”

“Surprisingly sharp, isn't it?” Aziraphale agreed. “Let me see, dear. It does tend to leave burns.”

“Already healed,” Crowley assured him, showing Aziraphale – well, his own wrists. “I'm not going to give you back this corporation _damaged_.”

“Oh, really now, it's just a small thing,” Aziraphale protested. “Rope's hardly bad at all.”

“Well, it hurt, so I healed it,” Crowley grumped. “Don't know why you didn't, over the years.”

“Suppose I just got used to it,” Aziraphale said softly. 

“Well, don't. 'S not...it's not _right_, you hurting,” Crowley said firmly. 

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley added 'no, really, it's not right for you to be in pain not on _my_ watch' to the list of Things To Discuss In Their Brave New World, alongside 'so how long has Gabriel been gaslighting you, to the nearest millennium', 'you did pick up that Heaven is abusive', 'okay but why does Sandalphon have a grill what the actual white fuck', and, at the top of the list 'you did work out I'm madly in love with you right?'.

He was extremely relived when they swapped back, and headed for the Ritz. Item number one was going to take some liquid courage, to say the least.

(Much later, though perhaps not so very much, relatively, he did get to kiss Aziraphale's wrists, and they were exactly as soft and wonderful as he'd imagined they would be. Never made for cold iron or rope or chains, but for Crowley's mouth, he was  _sure_ of it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the prompt like literally the day after Michael Sheen, via the medium of Twitter, made it clear he's a cheeky bastard and also quite possibly enjoyed filming that Bastille scene rather a lot. The synchronicity was something, and also I had to have a lie-down.
> 
> I am not so sure Aziraphale is all that enamoured with being tied up, however.


	9. 'Stay Quiet'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: minor character injury, mention of blood

“Oh, _bugger_,” Aziraphale said, and ducked, dragging Crowley down with him.

“Wha- _ ooohfuck _ ,” Crowley said, and the world exploded in noise and light around them.

The miracle Aziraphale flung up at the last moment probably kept them alive, but it could only do so much again cannon-fire raining down. But that was what you got, picnicking on the cliffs along the coast in the middle of a Naval battle. In France. When one was, rather unmistakeably, English. (Or, at the very least, extremely Not French. No matter what they'd tried, he and Crowley had never quite been able to pass as French, although Crowley could often manage northern Italian. Everyone immediately took Azriraphale for an Englishman, of course. Possibly even before there was an England.)

So the cannonballs missed them – a lucky thing, as discorporation was no laughing matter – but the rocks and bits of trees and things the cannonballs hit did not.

“Ooogh,” Aziraphale groaned as he came to, his head aching something fierce. Bloody partial miracles. Since his last slap on the wrist, they were about all he could manage, like Heaven had put a damper on his powers. Crowley could do a bit better, but it wouldn't be safe to be seen helping an angel out too much.

Crowley!

“Oh, thank God,” Aziraphale breathed, and meant it. Crowley was half-buried in rubble like he was, but it was small rocks and chunks of wood. There was bright blood on his temple, poor thing, but he was breathing and, when Aziraphale un-buried them, relatively unhurt. A terrible cut on his arm was bleeding freely, but Aziraphale quickly pressed his stock into service as a bandage, and all was soon as well as it could be. 

After a cursory check of himself – cuts and bruises, but nothing worth fussing over – he realized that they had better find a spot to hide out in. There would be French soldiers all over these hills in a matter of hours, if not minutes, and it wouldn't do to be found.

There was, at least, a handy cave nearby, one they had noticed on their way out here. It was small – just tall enough for Aziraphale to sit up in, but deep enough that they could hide in the back, and the entrance was even smaller, easily covered by tree branches.

Crowley didn't even stir when Aziraphale tried to wake him, but he was able to drag his friend the necessary distance and get him into the cave – blessedly cool and dry. A little work covering their tracks and breaking off a particularly leafy bough to act as a door, and they were safe inside the cave.

Aziraphale risked making tiny, soft lights, barely enough to let him see, but he wanted to check Crowley again. And make him comfortable, of course.

He took off his coat and folded it into a pillow, tucking it under Crowley's head. The demon's hair was already smoothed back in a pigtail, well off of his face,and Aziraphale made a little  _ tch _ sound, touching the lump on the side of his head. Poor dear; that was going to ache when he woke.

At least it wasn't too cold; Crowley  _ did _ so feel the cold and the damp, and there wasn't much Aziraphale would be able to do about that. He fussed a little more, but had to trust to time and Crowley's own innate healing abilities.

And so Aziraphale settled down to wait, pulling out one of the small books he habitually carried about in his pocket.

There couldn't have been more than an hour or two that passed, before Crowley began to wake up.

Unfortunately, this coincided with the arrival of the soldiers.

Of course, Crowley woke up  _ loud _ .

“Aghghgh,” he started to say, when Aziraphale clapped a hand over his mouth and extinguished all but one of the tiny points of light he'd made. 

“Stay quiet!” he hissed. “Enemies about.”

Crowley opened his eyes, but they were wide and unseeing with terror, and Aziraphale suspected he didn't know where he was. Without moving his hand, he lay down, mouth next to Crowley's ear.

“ _ Stay. Quiet _ ,” he whispered as loud as he dared. “Or you'll get us both killed.”

Crowley made a howling, screaming sort of sound, and Aziraphale wondered if he would have to knock his friend out.  _ Could _ he knock him out, even? It wasn't like there was a handy rock about. He'd have to lift Crowley's head and – oh God. He couldn't do that, not even to save them.

“Shutupshutupshutup,” he opted for instead, as Crowley started to squirm. “And stay  _ still _ , damn you.” He flung a leg over Crowley's, trying to pin him down. He could  _ hear _ soldiers outside on the mountainside, and Crowley was going to get them discorporated! After all they'd been through! They had been  _ enjoying _ themselves!

Crowley grunted against his hand, and Aziraphale seriously re-considered if he could hurt his friend to save them both.

At least Crowley quieted after that, and they were both silent as soldiers moved about, calling to each other, examining the damage, but not finding the cave entrance.

Someone did stop just by the entrance, and Aziraphale held his breath, his hand clamped even more firmly on Crowley's mouth, but after a few moments, whoever it was walked past.

It was an agonizing age – though, in truth, probably only ten minutes or so – until the last sounds of humans filtered away, and were replaced, slowly, by birdsong.

Aziraphale drew his hand away and Crowley moaned.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Aziraphale said, and cautiously added a few more points of light to the inside of their little cave.

“Hurts,” Crowley said, in a voice Aziraphale hadn't heard before. No – once or twice before. Gethsemane. Noah. Crowley was... _ vulnerable _ , he finally settled on, and it frightened him.

“I know, my dear,” he murmured, trying to comfort. “I'm sorry. I tried to save us.”

“ _ Zira _ .” Crowley's eyes were wide and terrified and full of pain. “It's dark.”

“Shh, that's just because we're hiding,” Aziraphale soothed. He held up his hand, just a few inches from Crowley's face. “Can you see my fingers?”

Crowley nodded his head, and cried out, closing his eyes tightly against the pain. “Not blind,” he ground out.

“Thank goodness for that,” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, my poor dear. No, lie still. Shhh.” He lay down beside Crowley, hoping to comfort him somehow. “Shh, now. We just both got a little squished. Your arm's cut up something awful, and you've hit your head, but it'll be all right soon. Just rest, your body knows what to do.”

Crowley moaned, but it sounded like an agreeing sound, at least.

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale whispered. “It was supposed to be a lovely day for us. A picnic, the sea, all the beauty in the world. I'm so sorry.” He stroked Crowley's forehead, hoping to soothe him to sleep, give his demonic healing a time and place to kick in.

Crowley's breath evened out and grew deep. Aziraphale shed his waistcoat too, adding that to the pillow under Crowley's head, and checked his arm – there was dried blood on his hand, and the sleeve had been ripped away, but no fresh blood, and Aziraphale's ersatz bandage was neat.

Aziraphale didn't sit back up, and didn't return to his book. He lay there, one hand over Crowley's heart, and waited for him to wake up again, waited for whatever Crowley might need from him.

The sun soon set enough that the cave was well and truly dark, and Aziraphale made tiny stars to dance on the ceiling, to light their little corner. It was another hour, though, before Crowley stirred again, this time waking more quietly.

“...angel?”

“Right here, my dear,” Aziraphale said, relieved to hear Crowley more himself. “You're safe, you just...got a little bit hurt.”

“Cannons. Bloody Navy. Right.” Crowley groaned and his eyes flew open. “ _ Angel _ ! Are you hurt!?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “I'm fine.”

Crowley rolled over and narrowed his eyes. “I see blood on you,” he accused.

“A few cuts. I'm all right,” Aziraphale repeated. “I promise.”

Crowley did not look particularly like he trusted this, but he also didn't look capable of doing much about it, either. “Eurgh. Bloody head,” he groaned, as his headache caught up with him.

“Yes, you did rather catch something with your noggin,” Aziraphale said sympathetically. “Do you feel better? You seem better.”

“Ngh.” Crowley squeezed his eyes, clearly did something, and then opened them. “Oh, that's better.” He sat up. “Oh, that's  _ not _ ,” he groaned, and Aziraphale caught him before he could collapse backwards.

“Lie  _ still,  _ you idiot,” he grumbled. “Honestly, Crowley. Engage in a little sloth, will you?”

Crowley smiled up at him, and Aziraphale's heart panged. It was so nice to be this close to him. To have almost held him, to have an excuse to touch and fuss and be tender. And to get that smile in return.

“Encouraging me in my demonic ways?” he teased, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, yes.” he said sadly. “I don't want to try to heal you, in case it hurts. And anyway, my side--”  
“Sharp notes. I understand,” Crowley said, more gently than Aziraphale deserved. He was like that, beneath the bluster and the smirks. “Give me tonight, and I think I can get myself into a state to hike back to town at least.”

“I can do tonight,” Aziraphale agreed, making himself comfortable. The back of the cave did have rather a pleasing tilt to it, a bit like sitting up in bed. A bit.

“You don't have to stay,” Crowley said, sounding surprised.

“Well, I'm certainly not going to just  _ leave _ you,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Now, close your eyes and rest.”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again soon after. “You really don't have to stay,” he mumbled.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, not thinking what the little spark of hope he'd seen flit across Crowley's face meant.

They were quiet, then, in the soft light of Aziraphale's little stars.

“Are you cold?” Aziraphale asked some time later. The sun's warmth was long gone, and though he was pretty cold-hardy, his snakey friend wasn't.

“Um. Ah. A bit?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale played with lace on his cuff. “I'm not.”

“Love of God to keep you warm?” Crowley asked, but it wasn't nasty.

“Er. Something like that. Look. I can.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. They'd done this before, in the early days. And on Noah's ark, though of course they'd also been in a pile of kids at the time. “I can hold you,” he offered softly.

Crowley was quiet for a little bit.

“I think. Erm. I think I'd like that,” he said. “You know, help me heal. Yeah, yeah, that's it. Uh. Won't have to keep myself warm.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale latched onto the excuse, unbelievably grateful for Crowley's cleverness. “Of course. That would be silly, for you to waste your energy like that. I'll just. Er.”

He lay down and slid an arm under Crowley's shoulders. “Is that okay?”

“So far. If I just...” Crowley rolled into him, joggling his injured arm, and couldn't entirely muffle a small cry.

“Be careful! You were cut nearly to the bone,” Aziraphale scolded. He eased Crowley's arm between them, then put his other arm around his friend's waist, holding Crowley to him, their legs tangling together. “Better?” he asked.

“Oh,” Crowley said and sighed. “Oh, yes. Thank you. Er. This is...very helpful.”

Every atom of Aziraphale's being cried out to press a kiss to Crowley's hair, but of course he resisted. He was merely helping his Adversary out, the way Crowley had often helped him. Professional courtesy, that was all. So what if they were also friends, of a sort? Even angels didn't hold each other like this.

Crowley's weight was slight in Aziraphale's arms, and some part of him that ran on instinct made a note to involve a little more food in their time together, or at least make sure that Crowley ate more than a few bites. The rest of him was busy metaphorically sitting on the small corner of his heart that cried out that he wanted this  _ every _ night, and attempting to smother it or at least get it to shut up. To hold Crowley close every night of his life was, of course, madness.

Epilogue: 

The next day, they left the cave. Crowley was shaky, and Aziraphale couldn't hide that some of his wounds weren't quite as small as he'd pretended, but they made it to the nearest village. The next day, they were on their way to Calais, and from there to London, where they cordially parted, all misadventures fading into the great pool of memories they shared, to be revisited in future. Though, to be fair, it was a very long time before they spoke of that night in the cave again.

“I s'pose you could have been a  _ worse _ patient,” Aziraphale pondered, as Crowley made himself comfortable, snuggled in the angel's arms. Aziraphale dropped a kiss onto his long red curls, and enjoyed the cheeky grin he got. Crowley really was relaxed; his hair was nearly to his waist and his eyes were wholly golden. They'd definitely have to get in a whole case of that particular Riesling. Not to mention the strawberries and fresh cream. 

“I could have been way worse,” Crowley bragged. “Just went easy on you, you being injured and all.”

“I was  _ not _ \--”

“You walked with a limp until we reached London!” Crowley challenged.

Aziraphale sniffed, and didn't deign to reply.

Crowley made a grumpy noise, and stroked Aziraphale's arm. The sleeve of his pyjamas – tartan flannel – was very soft and very nice, Crowley thought, as he wound himself a little closer.

“Well, I suppose you're right,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley was about to declare victory when he realized that Aziraphale had gone back to  _ his _ status as a patient, not the lying, devious angel's. “You did nearly get us found, of course.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you've never let me forget,” Crowley said. “Not my fault.”

“No,” Aziraphale had to concede. “And I suppose I'm glad I didn't have to knock you out.”

“I am also grateful for that,” Crowley said. “I can be  _ way _ more annoying when I'm awake.”

“So I noticed,” Aziraphale said dryly, and smiled when Crowley yawned. “Sleep, my dear. It's late.”

“It isn't,” Crowley argued, but his eyes were already slipping shut. He wriggled a few fingers between the buttons of Aziraphale's pyjama top, to rest them on his chest, just over where his heart beat.

Aziraphale kissed the top of his head, and held him as he fell asleep. Perhaps he would sleep a little too, and maybe dream, or simply daydream until morning. He had books to read if he grew bored, but he thought that unlikely on this dreamy, happy night.

He held Crowley close as he slept, of course, as he did every night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to anyone who was in Hornblower fandom! They were definitely being shot at by the bloody Indy, I promise ;)


	10. 'Don't Move'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: major character injury (described vaguely)

“I  _ said _ , don't move,” the man snarled. He lowered his hand, and the circle holding Aziraphale grew even smaller.

“Oh,  _ stop _ ,” Aziraphale said, and grunted when he was forced to curl in on himself a bit. “I'm telling you, you idiot, I'm not a  _ demon _ .”

“That's what a demon  _ would _ say,” the man said. “Besides, I summoned you. What else would you be?”

“An angel, obviously,” Aziraphale huffed. 

The man eyed him up.

“ _ What _ ?”

“Aren't angels...beautiful?”

“Oh for--”

Unfortunately, things rather took a turn from there. A stiff upper lip can only do so much against a madman with a grimoire, and Aziraphale was only grateful – in between bouts of frustrated torture on his captor's part and trying to explain that he  _ literally couldn't do _ what was being asked of him on his part – that the man couldn't call down hellfire. 

The magic circle was hardly larger than Aziraphale's body, but it didn't much matter – he was pretty sure he couldn't sit up under his own power, after the last bout of threats. His back felt raw, his coat and shirt shredded, and he curled on his side, too exhausted and in pain to keep from weeping. He was going to be stuck in this stupid circle forever, with this absolute  _ moron _ who remained convinced, somehow, that Aziraphale was a demon.

The best he could hope for is that somehow Crowley could track him down and show budget Jack Parsons over there what a demon could  _ really _ do. But then, Crowley was off gadding about Siberia, claiming he could spread quite a lot of demonic workings, somehow, in one of the most sparsely-populated places on Earth. Aziraphale suspected he was really just in search of a peaceful vacation, and he been so annoyed at not being invited along, he hadn't even accepted an invitation for goodbye drinks.

So. He was probably on his own, at least until Crowley got back to London, and got peckish.  _ Bugger _ .

“If you would just  _ give _ me what I  _ wanted _ , it would be so much  _ easier _ ,” the man said. He had graduated to controlling the circle to compress painfully on Aziraphale, crushing him slowly, a little tighter with each word. Aziraphale was pretty sure he'd begun to hear bones break, but everything felt very distant. Discorporation was nothing to look forward to, and Heaven would be  _ quite _ upset with him, but it was starting to seem the better option, even with centuries of paperwork ahead.

There was a sound like the universe tearing, and Aziraphale figured this was it, when a voice cut through the air. “Let. Him.  _ Go _ .”

“Crowley!” he didn't exclaim, because he couldn't get up the energy or the will to move his mouth, but he looked up and saw a very, very angry demon.

“Fucking finally!” The man looked about as relieved as Aziraphale felt, because he was very, very stupid.

“Oh yes,” Crowley said. “Finally. You wanted a demon? You've got one.”

“Give me power, and I'll feed you with souls forever,” the man bargained.

“Oh, no. Oh  _ dear _ .” Crowley circled where Aziraphale was captive. He walked slowly, easily, his hips doing the thing his hips always did. “You think I'm here to make a  _ deal _ .”

“Well, aren't you?  _ This _ one is useless,” the would-be magician said, gesturing disgustedly at Aziraphale.

“Ah!” Crowley held up a finger. “I might –  _ might _ have been inclined to be merciful. Give you a quick death. But now you're annoying me. And you've gone and insulted my best friend,  _ to my face _ . You absolute potato.”

“You can't kill me,” the man snorted. “Look at you. I can bind you in a circle.”

Crowley made a thoughtful noise, and tilted his head, examining where Aziraphale lay. “Ooooh, is  _ that _ what you think?”

“That's what I do!” He started to say something in Latin, and the circle around Aziraphale contracted a little further. 

To his shame, Aziraphale cried out, with Crowley  _ right there _ , soft thing that he was. 

The demon snarled and snapped his fingers. The circle holding Aziraphale vanished, and he collapsed, moaning but at least able to relax.

Metal bars appeared over the man's mouth, a crude X. There were rivets, and blood, and a muffled scream.

“You idiot. You absolute moron. You didn't even cast a spell to catch a demon – you  _ meant  _ to get an angel,” Crowley snarled.

A frantic sound of disagreement, and Aziraphale rolled over, slowly healing himself as best he could. The man was backing up, eyes wide with terror now.

“Oh, wait, no, hold that thought.” Crowley snapped his fingers and froze time. He dropped to his knees by Aziraphale, fury replaced with worry. “Oi, no, don't move. No, it's too much for you – do you trust me, angel?”

Aziraphale was too tired and hurting and heartsick to do anything but nod. And, after all, he did. For all that they were different sides, they were...what they were.

“Oh, he hurt you very badly,” Crowley murmured. “Oh, Satan.  _ We _ don't even do shit like this, you've got to be human for  _ this _ .” Gentle as anything, he passed his hand over Aziraphale's body, stitching together torn skin, healing broken bones, stopping that spot of internal bleeding here, even soothing that bruise there. “My poor angel,” he said, voice truly sad. “I...I'm sorry. I should have known. Should've come before he could do this.”

“Don't be sorry,” Aziraphale managed. “You're here now.” He smiled weakly. “Thank you. I'm not sure I could...”

Crowley nodded, and touched Aziraphale's forehead. “We can go home soon. Let me just take out the trash, and everything will be tickety-boo,” he said, with a wink.

“I've got a wonderful vinho verde with our names on it,” Aziraphale joked weakly.

“Maybe start you off with a cup of tea,” Crowley said. “I'm going to restart time. It might hurt a bit, I'm sorry.”

“I'll be fine, you old serpent. Don't worry about me.”

“Don't tell me what to do,” Crowley said, the argument easy and well-worn on their tongues. He touched his fingertips to his lips, then touched Aziraphale's cheek, a promise for later.

It  _ did _ hurt when Crowley restarted time, but only a bit. Aziraphale closed his eyes and concentrated on remembering to breathe, while his body figured out that it was healed now – physically, at least.

“You're so lucky he's alive,” Crowley crooned. “Really, you've no idea. You caught him, and you tortured him, and you didn't even know what you had. And yet he's alive.” He smiled, and had too many teeth. “Pity you won't be.”

Aziraphale braced himself for some squishy bits, but Crowley just hissed and moved his hand in an odd way. The man screamed, short and sharp, and vanished.

“Where is he?” Aziraphale asked warily.

“Downstairs,” Crowley said. “Up you go, can you walk? Yes, yes, of course I”ll help you – lean on me, yes, just like when you get drunk.”

“I do not get  _ that _ drunk,” Aziraphale said, his arm around Crowley's shoulders. He had to move slowly, and the demon was carrying most of his weight, but he could walk, after a fashion.

“'Course you do. Just outside – ah, here.” He helped Aziraphale into the Bentley.

“Where are we, anyway?” Aziraphale asked.

“You won't believe me if I tell you,” Crowley said.

“I will!”

“We're in Crawley,” he said, and smiled, and set about breaking every speed limit, and a couple of laws of physics, too.

Aziraphale was too worn out to protest, or do anything other than look out the window and watch relativity scream until it gave up and went home for the evening. Redshift was always very pretty, at least.

Crowley took them to the bookshop and got Aziraphale inside and into bed, promised cup of tea by his bedside.

“I don't sleep,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“But I do.” Another snap, and they were in pyjamas. Matching silk, of course, and Aziraphale just had to sigh and smile and admire the fine stitchwork on his. 

“Thank you, by the way,” he said. “I don't know if I got that in earlier. But...thank you. Was getting a bit tight in there.”

“Yes, that's what I thought.” Crowley climbed into bed, sitting up beside him. He leaned over a kissed Aziraphale's shoulder. “Thanks for hanging in there. Would be dreadful to have to put up with a  _ replacement _ .”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “You wouldn't put up with any angel but me, dearest.”

“Well, of course not. You're fun.” Crowley gave a contented little wriggle. “Drink your tea, 's good for you.”

Aziraphale did, and found it quite reviving, though really only enough to encourage him to lie down. He might not sleep, but he could rest, he thought.

Especially with Crowley curled up right beside him.

“How was Siberia?” he asked politely.

“Eh. Quiet. Bit too quiet, if you ask me. Good to be back on the old patch,” Crowley said.

“Indeed. Fancy a bit of lunch tomorrow? Make up for the one I had to, er, miss?”

“That you pissily refused.” Crowley grinned. “Of course, angel, love to. See how you're feeling tomorrow, though. That bastard was a bit of nasty business, I don't mind telling you.”

“I'm quite all right,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Now go to sleep before you worry over me all night.”

“Who said I was worried?” Crowley asked, and to prove his point, turned over and immediately fell deeply asleep, including a little light snoring.

It was complete coincidence that his hand had landed in Aziraphale's, their fingers curling together. And that Aziraphale then smiled over at him, and settled in for a nice, peaceful night.


	11. Tearstained

“Mmph?” Oh, why on  _ earth _ had Aziraphale taken up sleeping? It was simply dreadful. Well, technically, waking up was the dreadful part, he quite liked the other bits. The big, soft bed and lovely blankets, all kinds – down-filled duvets and heavy woolly blankets that itched so you needed softer ones between you and it, like fuzzy mohair, or even an old-fashioned quilt that still had love sewn into it. And your own love beside you, Crowley's feet always cold, but he liked that a little – he could rest his toes on Crowley's insteps, just able to feel his scales there, and keep his sweetheart warm as they kissed goodnight and maybe talked a little, or just snuggled down and fell asleep.

So, really, Aziraphale thought as he opened his eyes, it wasn't the sleeping that was the problem, it was the waking.

There was an added layer of pain to this act today, since he opened his eyes to Crowley sat beside him, face buried in his hands, shaking with sobs.

“My dear!” Aziraphale was fully awake in a unit of time far too small to measure, and it was only the space of a breath before he was sitting up, his arms coming around Crowley, urging him close.

Crowley made a raw noise and pulled away from him.

Aziraphale dropped his arms instantly, even skidding back a few inches. “Sweetheart, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Look at me. Are you hurt?” That could be the only reason Crowley pulled away from him, but what would hurt a demon so badly? Right here in their bed?

Crowley looked up, his tearstained face lost for a moment. He shuddered, and curled up tighter, face buried in his knees now, folded against his chest.

“Crowley?”

“ _ Give _ me a moment, angel,” Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale did. He wasn't very good at quiet, or waiting, or patience, but he bit the inside of his mouth and literally twiddled his thumbs, and sat as still as he could. Which wasn't very, but he could do his best.

Crowley was still, until he wasn't. It was startling, these lizard-like movements, until you were used to them, which Aziraphale supposed he was. Six thousand years in love with the same being does  _ rather _ mean you got used to them.

He looked up and over at Aziraphale, and hissed.

“Human words, love, in this form,” Aziraphale reminded him gently. He was pretty good at figuring out what snake-Crowley was saying, and of course human-Crowley was easy, but when the two came together he struggled a bit.

“When will you deny me again?”

“I— _ what _ ?” Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't  _ this _ . Crowley had nightmares, poor dab. Sometimes he woke and clung to Aziraphale, remembering the fire in the bookshop. Or older fears and sorrows visited, and Aziraphale gentled him back to sleep, or sat up with him, making them both tea and loving as hard as he could, listening if Crowley needed it or chattering on about whatever if he didn't. (Aziraphale going on about English prosody was better than even the dullest Radio 4 program in the wee hours of the day, and generally sent Crowley into a state of dozing contentment within moments.)

But he'd never woken up  _ angry _ before.

“When, angel? You spent so many years saying I wasn't your friend, you didn't know me, that you didn't even like me. How many times have you denied me? Hundreds? Thousands?” Crowley looked bitter, like Aziraphale had never seen before. “When will you do it again, eh?”

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. “Crowley! What are you – never! I said those things to protect us!”

“Even when it was just to me, with no one around? Just in case God was listening?” Crowley asked, tears still falling down his face.

“Oh.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Yes. That.”

“Yes,  _ that _ .” Crowley barked a laugh, an ugly sound. “I never denied you, not once. Not to your face. Protection, yeah. Yeah, I remember that. But I was never  _ mean  _ about it.”

Aziraphale nodded, his fingers a tight knot, beyond even wringing his hands. “I suppose.” He took a deep breath. “I suppose we must also address that I have often. Not been the best angel – no.” Another deep breath. “I have not always been a good friend to you.” There. He had always known this, and now Crowley knew he knew and they could hug and kiss and be in love again.

“No, you haven't,” Crowley said bluntly. “And you're still not answering me.” He smiled bitterly. “I dreamed it. Gabriel came. Offered you Heaven back. And all you had to do was deny me. You told me--”

“ _ Don't  _ say it,” Aziraphale said, voice harsher than he meant. “Don't. I never would.  _ Never _ . I chose our side. I chose  _ you _ . Yes, I have sins I have to pay for. I was...unimaginably cruel to you, because I was afraid. I am sorry. That's mine to atone for. But don't you dare send me back to Heaven.”

Crowley sniffled, and wiped at his face. “Why should I believe you?”

Aziraphale gave a full-body shudder. There it was. The disappointment he'd been waiting for. He seemed to inspire it in everyone. Presumably God was also disappointed in him.

But Crowley was also right, and he deserved, above all else, an answer.

“I won't be so foolish as to ask you to have faith in me,” he said slowly. “That...seems like too much.” He looked over at Crowley, met his eyes. Saw his best friend, his partner, his beloved. Saw the pain, yes, but the quiet waiting for an answer, too. This wasn't an idle question; it was a presage to work on both their parts. There was still love there, enough to fuel the universe, and certainly enough that Aziraphale could be brave for once in his existence. “I was terrible to you, because I was, and am, a coward,” he said bluntly. “But I can be brave. That's what you loved about me first. That I was...reckless with my love. You make me reckless, my love. Enough to choose you, over and over again. Enough to stand up to Heaven.” He set his mouth, and hoped Crowley couldn't see him trembling. “I will never deny you, because I chose you, and will choose you every time, and I'll show you, in every way I can. I swear to you.”

Crowley nodded slowly. “Well, points for honesty.”

“I know this won't happen overnight,” Aziraphale said. “It can't. Just. I promise.” He held out a hand. “Will you consider believing me?”

Crowley reached out too, their hands clasping, and he smiled. Just a little bit. “I can do that.”

Aziraphale raised their hands slowly, watching and careful, and kissed the back of Crowley's hand, skin cool against his lips. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale mostly kept to himself that day, in part to give Crowley a little space to breathe, in part to give  _ himself _ quiet and peace, and mostly to think and plan. Grand gestures would come across as empty, and obviously they couldn't carry on like they had been, but small changes, every day – that might do it, he thought. Make real what was in his heart, and make sure Crowley knew.

The next day he gave Crowley a small bouquet of red roses and rosemary, because peace offerings were a thing, and he liked to give Crowley gifts anyway. 

“Thank you,” Crowley said, and touched a velvety petal. “They're beautiful.”

“Like you,” Aziraphale said, because he wasn't exactly smooth, but he also wasn't what you'd call dumb. And it was true, because Crowley was lovely. And even if it had been his fault, Crowley had been sad, and he could try to do something about it – which, in this case, was give him roses, and then a hug, and kiss him. “I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

But none of this was so very  _ different _ . That came about with other people.

“Table for one?” the maitre'd asked.

“Two, please,” Aziraphale said. “I'm waiting for my husband.”

“Of course, right this way.”

Crowley was only running a few minutes late; Aziraphale had just settled when he arrived.

“Oh, I'm meeting someone already--” Crowley said, scanning the room.

“Yes, of course. Your husband is right there,” the maitre'd said, gesturing to Aziraphale, who couldn't resist a little wave from their table.

“Ngk,” Crowley said. Then. “Thank you,” he said faintly.

“Newlyweds?” the man asked kindly.

“You could say that,” Crowley said, because although it wasn't in any way even remotely true, you  _ could _ say those words.

“Hullo dear,” Aziraphale said when Crowley dropped into his seat. “Good mischief-making?”

“Uh. Yes. Good...bookselling?”

“Oh, I decided not to open,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “It's a federal holiday.”

Crowley blinked. “... _ where _ ?”

“America,” Aziraphale said, and opened the menu. “Oooh, shrimp cocktail! I haven't seen that in an age!”

Crowley grinned, and made sure to order two.  _ And _ a Harvey Wallbanger, so that they could truly revisit the eighties.

Things continued along that vein – Aziraphale calling Crowley his husband, or his partner, making sure they were seen and treated as a couple. He was loving in private, too, but that wasn't so very different; lavishing kindness on Crowley was one of his great joys. To make sure everyone else knew, in every way that he could, quickly became second nature. 

And so Aziraphale, who once told Shakespeare himself that he hardly knew Crowley, found himself gossiping with old women at the bus stop about his husband, or checking them into hotels under the same name, cheerfully asking for a room with a single (if large) bed, and casually introducing Crowley to all as his partner. And, in return, not even blinking when he was introduced as Crowley's husband, merely warmly smiling, and agreeing that it was lovely they could be married now, not like the old days indeed.

Years passed, then decades. Crowley finally gave up his flat and moved into the little living space above the bookshop. (A few demonic miracles made it a slightly larger living space, although Aziraphale didn't really understand the TARDIS joke.) They picked a day to have as their anniversary, more or less at random; it was good to have another excuse to go out for a nice dinner, or plan a little holiday. 

Heaven and Hell left them alone, and love flourished; it was rare they spent a night apart, and often spent their days together as well, finding the delights of staying in and letting the world do as it would, or exploring everything humanity had to offer. And over and over, not in any obvious way, Aziraphale always made it clear that Crowley was his, and he was Crowley's.

It was a morning when they both woke early. They had come to the South Downs, pondering the idea of perhaps moving out of London someday to a place where Crowley could keep a garden, and Aziraphale take up beekeeping. This was still under consideration – one got used to a place, once one had seen it change over more than two millennia – but the long weekend at a little rental cottage had certainly been a good idea.

Aziraphale had made them coffee, and brought Crowley's to him in bed, settling happily beside him. “Going to be a lovely day.”

“Mmmm. We should go on a ramble,” Crowley said. “You like walking.”

“Oh, that would be just delightful. We could pick brambles, and I'll make us a crumble to have with tea,” Aziraphale said.

“Done and done.” Crowley smiled and leaned in, and kissed his cheek.

“Excellent.” Aziraphale turned his head, and kissed him back. “Sweetheart. Question for you.”

“Answer at the ready,” Crowley said. 

“Do you remember when you asked me the next time I would deny you?”

Crowley blinked, slowly. “Yes,” he said.

“Do you know the answer now?”

A soft smile, eyes wide. Aziraphale had gone so long without seeing Crowley make that expression; he'd seen it on the walls of Eden, and then not for a very, very long time. Too long, but no use mourning that. It had come around a bit more often, lately, and Aziraphale was pleased every time. He felt proud that  _ he _ could inspire that expression, felt something stir in him, every time, felt something banish a little more the pain of the memory of Crowley's tearstained face.

“I do,” Crowley said, and cupped Aziraphale's face in his hands, leaning in for a kiss. “That dream was always a lie, wasn't it?”

“I gave you good reason to think it wasn't.”

“Maybe then. Not now.” Crowley smiled and kissed him again. “Love you, husband.”

Aziraphale smiled, and touched their foreheads together, his hands resting on Crowley's waist. “My husband,” he said. “I love you too. No more bad dreams, dear heart. Not about that.”

Crowley nodded, and pulled him into an embrace such that their hearts pressed together, only a few centimeters apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely one of my favourite things I've written, and is born out of an awful lot of metas.


	12. Scars

Crowley let his wings out with a happy sigh, and tried to ignore the sound of joy that came from Aziraphale. The angel was always  _ doing _ that – joyful sounds and murmurs and happy wiggles when Crowley did basically anything. It made his heart feel too full for his chest, so he tried to ignore it. Ration it. Do anything so that it didn't overwhelm him. He was mostly successful in this.

“Oh, my dear. Of course I've seen your wings before – the first time we met, even! – but they are so lovely.” Aziraphale reached out a gentle hand and stroked along an upper edge, the bone warm and hard under the thin layer of matte black feathers. So like his own, and yet unlike.

“They're all right,” Crowley muttered.

“They're lovely,” Aziraphale said firmly, and unfolded his own wings. They were in Crowley's flat for this very reason after all; the bookshop, though their usual haunt, really didn't have the room to stretch out.

Crowley gave his wings a kind of shiver, sending a few loose bits and bobs floating off, and a single black feather fell to the ground. Aziraphale seized on it. “Oh, good, I'm running short of bookmarks.”

“Is that what you use your spares for?” Crowley asked, finally turning around, slow and elegant with his wings spread in the big room. It had seemed cold at first to Aziraphale, but it was a warm day with blue sky and now the smell of frankincense and sandalwood in the air, and the two of them nearly dancing as they turned and walked around each other, watching how the other moved with their wings. 

It was so odd, Aziraphale thought, to find a new thing to do together after so long. But then, they were newly free. When Crowley had kissed him on a street corner, he'd nearly discorporated from shock. He  _ had _ had a full-blown panic attack, which is particularly not nice in an angel – feathers and eyes everywhere kind of thing – and, well, it hadn't been a very good day for anyone. 

But there had been better days since then, so many, each more full of good things than the last, he often thought. And today, this, the kind of gentle waltz in the great room of Crowley's flat, full of plants and light and the blue sky shining in.

Aziraphale drew a little closer, clasping Crowley's forearms and drawing him in for a kiss, loving the way he melted in Aziraphale's arms, how their bodies drew together, and their wings kissed along their edges, they were so perfectly matched in size and shape.

They parted with a smile, and Crowley gently twirled Aziraphale, a dance to imaginary music that forced him to pull his wings in close.

He tried to do the same back, but just got a demonic wing to the face, a gentle little whap that had him giggling and Crowley concerned, touching his face, checking for any damage done.

“Oh for goodness' sake, I get worse on the Tube,” Aziraphale teased. “Show me how you did that?”

So Crowley walked him through the gentle turn again, slowing the movement of his wrist so Aziraphale could feel it.

His second try was more effective. Not graceful, but he got Crowley from point A to point B, and then point C which was a hug, and a kiss to go with it.

Crowley laughed and kissed him again, nuzzling the edge of his jaw. “We'll have you dancing in no time.”

“I dance! I'm the only angel that does,” Aziraphale said proudly.

“Really?” Crowley broke into a grin, strange eyes wide and lovely. “Why am I not surprised?”

Aziraphale just blushed and shrugged, and ran his fingers along Crowley's wing again, stroking the inner surface this time, ruffling the feathers just enough to touch the thin skin underneath them.

“What's that?” he asked, feeling something different, just for a moment. Not a feather out of place – Crowley didn't have any of those, for a start, which was miracle enough for a slightly raggedy-winged angel

“Hmm?” Crowley spread his wings a little more, and Aziraphale parted the feathers, fingertips gentle.

“You have a scar?' he asked, concerned. “My dearest, what happened?” He trailed his hand down Crowley's wing, and could feel dozens of them, little raised scars, pale marks that criss-crossed already-pale skin. “Oh, love.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “I thought you knew.”

“No! Know what? Darling, what happened? Did it hurt? Does it hurt now?” Aziraphale jerked his hand away. “Oh, I shouldn't have touched...”

Crowley shrugged and caught Aziraphale's hand, holding it in both of his. He touched the gold signet ring; Aziraphale's halo. “It's all right. They're ugly.”

“I didn't say that,” Aziraphale said, a little reproachfully. “Quite the opposite. Your wings are so beautiful.”

Crowley smiled, an ironic little curl to his lips. Aziraphale was too used to it, and he hated it when Crowley gave him that smile.

“That's where my eyes were,” he said. “When I was an angel. They were...taken away. When I fell.”

Aziraphale gasped, too loud in the silence. His own wings flew up, beautiful and tall, his eyes blinking open, each one unlike his human eyes – blue with flecks of gold, where his own eyes were changeable as the weather. There were dozens, watching, gazing.

“Oh, Crowley. Oh, my love.” he said, and moved closer, wings coming around them both, a holy blanket to comfort Crowley's pain.

“Don't pity me,” Crowley said.

“I never! Never pity. But compassion, yes. Love, yes,” Aziraphale countered. He touched Crowley's wing gently, not following the lines of the scars, but the grain of his feathers. “You can't deny me those.”

“Deny an angel love? Can you do such a thing?” Crowley teased.

“You met Sandalphon, right?” Ouch – the joke was sharper than he'd meant, but they shared a bitter little smile, and Crowley eased where Aziraphale had his arms around his waist.

“Deny  _ you _ love, then. Can't do it. Never could,” Crowley confessed, and Aziraphale didn't gloat, but only just.

“No,  _ you _ can't,” he told Crowley, and kissed him before spreading his wings again. He took Crowley's hand in his and raised it above their heads, his partner kindly ducking just a little, their arms creating an arch. And, slowly, he spun Crowley, laughing when it went perfectly. He shifted his weight, turned, kept turning Crowley, giggling when his wings snapped out to fold back in when his back was to Aziraphale, while the angel kept his wings spread wide, reflecting the sun and giving him balance, grounding him, as they orbited one another, Crowley laughing out loud as he twirled around Aziraphale, two stars in orbit around each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh heck yeah my Aziraphale gets Michael Sheen's chameleon eyes
> 
> One of the things I like best about this challenge is that I get to play with different styles, and it feels easier, somehow, to write very short stories like this one.


	13. Winded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set right after Aziraphale's encounter with the Bad Angels

Aziraphale lay on the ground, curled in on himself trying to breathe. He tasted blood in his mouth, never a good thing. And it wasn't as though he  _ needed _ to breathe, but one got used to things. Not to mention the quiet terror that was getting not-very-quiet as he tried to suck in air and couldn't.

“It's okay, it's okay.” 

Hands lifting him to sitting, Aziraphale sucked in a breath, blinked, tried to get away. The angels had come back, Sandalphon –

“See, you're all right mate. That's it. It's an awful feeling, innit?” 

A breath. Another. Lungs working again, and Aziraphale looked up, blinking.

A person, their hands still on his shoulders, smiled at him. “With me?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Think you can get up?”

Another nod, and they helped him up, hands strong under his elbows.

“There, much better. Uh. Is there someone I can...call for you?”

Aziraphale almost said Crowley's name, before thinking better of it. He shook his head, and with the movement came his manners, at least.

“I'm quite all right, my dear. I live just over there,” he said, nodding towards the bookshop.

The person nodded kindly. “Want me to walk you? I know it's not far...”

“No, no, quite all right,” Aziraphale said, and patted their hand. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” They disappeared into the crowd quickly, and Aziraphale joined the flow as well, letting the energy of the street see him home.

Crowley had probably already left for Alpha Centauri. Best to get to his own work, if he ever wanted even a chance see the demon again in this existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily inspired by the first time I got winded and seriously thought I was dying. Not breathing is creepy!


	14. 'Stay With Me'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: a little light body horror with eyes

When Aziraphale fell, it happened slowly, at first.

Maybe that's why it took them so long to catch on, Crowley later thought. He didn't fall like they'd all fallen long ago; no high-dives in sulphur, nothing like that.

It started with a whisper of grey in his wings, the edges limned in storm-colors. It started with an itch between the shoulder blades.

“What's happening to me?” Aziraphale asked. “Was it like this for you?”

“No,” Crowley said. And, “I don't know. It wasn't like this. Oh, angel.”

“I'm not afraid,” Aziraphale said, even as he trembled. “I won't be. I never fit in there anyway. Maybe...maybe I'm just falling to Earth?”

“Maybe,” Crowley said, although he wasn't sure it worked like that. Still. Aziraphale wasn't plummeting, and he didn't seem to be vaguely sauntering or anything like the story Crowley had made up for himself.

Could you fall like a feather did?

It took a fortnight for his wings to transform to inky black. And another week for the colour to leave his eyes.

“You can see me, right?” Crowley asked anxiously. Aziraphale's alien white eyes, no pupil or iris, didn't seem to track anything.

“Of course,” Aziraphale soothed. “I can see you fine, love.” He unfolded dark feathers and wrapped them around them both, sighing happily in the gloom. “Oh, that's better. Does the light hurt your eyes too?”

“No,” Crowley said. “I see better in the dark than most, but light's okay. So see, you're not falling?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I'll have to borrow your sunglasses when we go out.”

“Bollocks you will, we'll get you your own. You'll lose 'em if I give you mine, and then where will I be?”

Aziraphale laughed – he knew the dozens of pairs Crowley had floating about. “Fine, fine. Selfish old snake.”

“Yes, I am,” Crowley informed him, and wrapped himself around the angel in their dark cocoon. Maybe this was the end of it. Maybe they could just make jokes, and he could kiss Aziraphale and admire his wings and love him, and that would be enough.

Ghost-white eyes and ink-dark wings weren't all, though. Three days after his eyes changed, Aziraphale startled them both with a yell, and a scramble to get his signet ring off. He threw it across the room, and Crowley was by his side in an instant – not that he went very far these days.

“Oh, Angel,” he said sadly. “Your hand.” The ring had left a nasty burn; at least Crowley could heal it.

“You'll have to stop calling me that,” Aziraphale said bitterly. “No halo, you know.”

“Don't tell me what I can call you,” Crowley said. “You're my angel, no matter what.”

Aziraphale winced, and Crowley made a mental note to maybe find a new nickname. 'Love' sounded good to him.

“You're my love,” he corrected himself, and Aziraphale went into his open arms to be cradled and cuddled and loved as much as Crowley thought he deserved, which was infinite.

That was the herald for the end, they figured out later. That was the last easy bit; three days later Aziraphale lay on their bed, sweat soaking through his clothes, tossing and moaning.

“Stay with me,” Crowley said, wiping his face with a wet cloth, knowing it wasn't doing any good but having to do  _ something _ . “Stay with me, love. I'm here. We'll get through this. I love you no matter what. Just  _ stay with me _ ,” he begged.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but words fled, and he was so hot to the touch, burning up. All Crowley could do was be there and stroke his hair and croon lullabies and wait, so he did all of that. He held Aziraphale's hand and talked to him about everything, about how they'd go to the Ritz, how they would go on a picnic, how Crowley would drive them up to Scotland, taking the prettiest routes he knew. How they could spend a week, a month, a year in the mountains and Aziraphale could forget all of this. How nothing would change, because they were their own side now, and Crowley wasn't leaving him for anything, ever.

Aziraphale calmed when Crowley spoke, so he talked until his voice ran out, stupid human vocal chords going raw. When talking felt like swallowing glass, he kept going, and only stopped when Aziraphale's hand went slack in his. He'd stopped breathing hours before, and his eyes were open, blank. Crowley had learned to read his expression, follow the invisible eyeline, and now there was nothing.

“Stay with me,” he mouthed, and curled up against Aziraphale's side, still holding his hand. He could wait forever if he had to.

As dawn broke, Aziraphale moaned, and gasped for breath, and breathed again. The terrible fever had broken, leaving the bed soaked, and Crowley was too tired to do anything but lie there, and smile at his beloved.

“It's gone,” Aziraphale said in a heavy, aching voice. “She's gone.”

Crowley reached out, touched over Aziraphale's heart. “It hurts,” he whispered. “I know.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “It doesn't. It does. But it doesn't.” He sat up and shuddered, tears gathering in his eyes. “She loved me and now She doesn't. I'm not an angel.” He looked down at his hands, tears falling faster. “Crowley, what  _ am  _ I? Am I still Aziraphale?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, as loud as he could, which wasn't very. “You are. I name you Aziraphale. Whatever you are – you're  _ you _ . You're the one who gave your flaming sword away and sheltered a demon from the first rainstorm, and I don't care what anyone else says.”

Aziraphale wiped his eyes and curled his knees up to his chest. “Did She ever love me?”

“I don't know,” Crowley said honestly. “Probably. When the world was new, yes. Last week? Who knows.”

Aziraphale nodded, and drew in a shuddering breath. “Right. Yes. Well. She wouldn't be the first. To stop.”

“I love you,” Crowley said, loud and sharp. It  _ hurt _ , made tears come to his eyes, but fuck it, it was worth it. He'd say it until his throat bled. God could jog on. Aziraphale was  _ loved _ .

“Oh my dear. Your voice – did you really talk to me that whole time? I thought I was dreaming that.” Aziraphale's hand rested on the back of his head, and there was a soft sigh and a snap. The bed was dry and soft and warm, and so was Aziraphale when he drew Crowley close. 

Crowley nodded, arms going around Aziraphale, holding him just as close. “We have each other,” he whispered.

“Shh, now. Your poor throat. Don't speak, dear. I'll be all right.” Aziraphale sighed. “We knew this was coming.”

Crowley made a noise, and it wasn't a nice one.

“I'll be all right,” Aziraphale said softly. “You were, after all. You fell, and you love and you're kind and you escaped Hell. So can I. I'm...I'm not even sure I'm a demon,” he confessed. “Maybe I'm something new.”

Crowley drew back and caressed Aziraphale's face. He didn't  _ feel _ demonic. Didn't feel like Hell. Maybe you  _ could _ only fall partway, or maybe the worst was yet to come. He didn't think so, though.

'Love,' he mouthed, as clearly as he could, and Aziraphale smiled, his odd eyes already becoming familiar, dark wings already becoming home.

“Love,” Aziraphale agreed, and kissed Crowley, soft and long, a lover's kiss they'd shared often. “Maybe that's what we are. Or are meant to be.” He shrugged, and sighed, and lay back, bringing Crowley with him. “Let us sleep now. It's done, whatever it is, and I'm still here with you. Nothing else matters.”

Crowley wrapped himself very firmly around Aziraphale, holding on and being held. If they both slept, he wanted to make sure they'd wake up together, never fearing being alone. Never that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy was it fun to write this then watch Dragula and realize fallen Aziraphale is basically just a Boulet Brother
> 
> (LANDON CIDER IS GONNA WIN YOU GUYS I CAN FEEL IT)


	15. Muffled Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mild description of burns

The thing about demons is, they're not very smart.  _ Someone _ had to invent the Dunning-Kreuger effect, and it was definitely Hell. They like shortcuts and unoriginality and being lazy. Some exceptions are made for the art of taking souls; in those slender cases a bit of panache and forethought and creativity is welcomed. Outside of that, though?

Well.

All this runs through Aziraphale's head as he flees his shop, ignoring the smashed door and broken glass and general mess behind him. Of course it hurts to see things in such a disarray, but it hurts more to know that Crowley is being carried away from him to certain doom. And so he runs faster; he who is not particularly built for running, but suddenly is sprinting through London, following a hunch, and following the taste of demon in the air. If he's right, this shortcut will work, and he'll save Crowley's life. If he's wrong –

He's right. He's smarter, and he's right.

They had come to that time of evening when one was switching from cups of tea to perhaps a small sherry, or a cocktail if one was feeling rather vintage. He and Crowley had just opened a bottle of Oloroso and Aziraphale was cleaning his sherry glasses, all pretty winking facets of cut glass that caught the warm lamplight.

“D'you smell something angel?” Crowley asked suddenly, and Aziraphale was about to complain about the pigeons and the bins when the door to his shop blew in silently. Demons flowed through, half smoke and half real, smell of sulfur and fine perfume mingling.

Aziraphale stepped forward, wings snapping open, but it all happened too fast – hands came around Crowley, covering his mouth and muffling his scream, and dragging him out at a speed too fast for eyes used to human movement.

But Aziraphale wasn't human, and he wasn't going to give Crowley up, and he wasn't dumb. All these things meant chase, and meant taking the part of him that was afraid, was  _ so afraid _ , and shoving it away until he could deal with that fear. Preferably much later, when Crowley was home and tucked in their bed and Aziraphale was next to him, watching him sleep and not reading like he usually did of a night.

They'll take him where they can hurt him the way he hurt Ligur, Aziraphale reckons. Like for like. Demons can walk in churches – didn't Crowley himself prove that? – if they're cautious. And all that holy water there for the taking, unguarded, all those holy things that can be used to cause pain.

Aziraphale dodges through a private park, the gate opening under his hand. He's not as fast as demons, but he thinks he can beat them. They might even go the long way to confuse Crowley, or panic him further; that seems like the kind of drama Hell would engage in.

He's mostly not a self-righteous prick anymore, but Aziraphale  _ does _ still believe that evil contains the seeds of its own demise.

(He just thinks that about Heaven too, now.)

He knows what church they'll go for; one that's small and holy and not well-loved anymore; not a Christopher Wren, not a church half for tourists, but one that will be closed and dark on this rainy evening.

The door is already open when Aziraphale gets there, and he swears under his breath, running faster up the steps. His corporation is not enamoured of this, but he also doesn't much care as he bursts into the church, wings spread, eyes blinking, flames beginning to flicker at his fingertips.

“Crowley!” he roars, and even the demons look up.

Crowley is naked on the altar, a horrific parody of the old Satanic masses, bless and damn Aleister and the rest of them. There are livid burns on his body where the demons, dressed in a parody of safety gear, have let him touch the ground, or, as one is doing, have pressed holy relics into his skin. His feet are the worst – they must have made him walk barefoot, and the state of them makes Aziraphale look away.

His hair is half torn out, scalp bleeding. And his eyes, his lovely golden eyes, rolling in terror as he catches sight of Aziraphale.

“Angel, no!” he cries out, and one of the demons gags him, forcing a stole of embroidered velvet into his mouth. Crowley's muffled screams break Aziraphale out of his stunned state, and he raises one hand, snapping his fingers.

The horrific tableau freezes, but he hasn't stopped time. Oh, they can hear and see him just fine. But they're so, so  _ dumb _ . They've brought Crowley to the place where Aziraphale is most powerful. He may not be beloved by other angels, but he is still beloved by God, and he is Her Principality.

“You foolish children,” he says and smiles, and it isn't a nice smile. “I hope no one put you up to this. I hope no one is that dumb. I hope it is your own folly that will be your end.” He shrugs. “But I don't much care. I'm here to get my love.” He walks up to the altar, sighing in pleasure as he walks through the nave. There is a beautiful little altar to Mary in the south transept; perhaps he'll come back here later and light a candle, the next time he's feeling prayerful. Assuming the church stands that long. He thinks it might, actually; this is a place of genuine worship.

Aziraphale enters the chancel and approaches the altar. The demons look very stupid, frozen in their half-human forms. He pauses and draws a smiley face in the smoke of one of them. He'll have to tell Crowley about that later, he thinks it will make him laugh. The thing that's frozen the demons – it's holding Crowley too, and holding his pain at bay.

Gentle, gentle, he slips his arms around Crowley and lifts him. The spell isn't broken yet, he has time.

“I'm so sorry my dear,” he murmurs. “Just a little longer, and we'll do something about all those burns. My poor love.”

He walks back to the nave, away from the holiest of holies, and settles on a pew, with Crowley across his lap. He is extremely aware of how they make a Pieta, and he enjoys the theatricality of it, and the sorrowful love as well.

“Just a moment longer, sweet,” he promises, and looks up. “Now that you're out of range.” He holds two fingers to the sky, and pulls them down, just a little, a gesture that could almost be a blessing.

Holy water leaps out of the font and finds its mark. Aziraphale dislikes screaming, so he mutes the demons that were so foolish. He also settles Crowley's head so he can't see; he's been through enough today.

“Right, now to take care of you.” Aziraphale strokes his hand down Crowley's side, smiling at familiar skin, the way it freckles even here, the sharp angles of Crowley's ribs and his hip. An outfit appears, one Crowley will love. Jeans that might as well be painted on, a low-cut shirt, one of those silly waistcoats, and his jacket, red collar flashing.

“We're going to go home, sweet. I can't hold the pain at bay, although we can both work to heal you, once we're out of this church. If you take care of the rest, I can take your feet.”

Crowley's eyes are active now, warm, and he winks. Aziraphale giggles in delight.

“You old serpent,” he says warmly. “Hold tight to me, I think I can manage one more big--”

A blink, a snap, and they're in their own bed, snug in the little flat over the bookshop.

“Ffffuuuuuuuu--” Crowley cuts himself off with a howl.

Aziraphale hisses and lays his hand on Crowley's feet, not touching the soles, the mess that they are, but getting his hand close and whispering to the universe how to knit muscle, regrow skin, deaden nerves no no forget the holy ground, there is nothing holy or demonic about this most human of places, about their  _ home _ , their turf, the place that is always safe for both of them. 

Aziraphale can't stop time, but he can step out of it, abandon chronos for kairos, and he does because it's exhausting but Crowley in pain is unbearable, so he does the delicate work. He heals as much as he can, tells Crowley's nerve endings to take the week off, and steps back into chronos, glad there's a nice bed already there to catch him.

“Blimey,” he says, as his vision stops swimming.

“ck,” Crowley says, and blinks. “What the hell did you just do?”

“I'll tell you later.” Aziraphale closes his eyes and licks his lips. “How many wings do I have?”

“Uh. Two?”

Aziraphale nods. “Mmm. And eyes? To the nearest dozen or so.”

“...also...two? Two that I can see,” Crowley amends. “Oh. No, angel, you're pretty nearly human again. Just the wings. Uch.” He snaps his fingers and sighs. “Oh, that's better. I've had a crucifix used in ways  _ definitely  _ never intended, I don't mind telling you.”

“I do,” Aziraphale says dryly, and opened his eyes. “Mind hearing, I mean. Hello, darling. I love you. Going to be all right?”

“I love you too. Thank you. What the in fuck just happened?”

Aziraphale blinks and checks his pocketwatch. “Half an hour,” he says weakly. “That took  _ half an hour _ . Crowley, I have waited for a  _ bus _ longer than it just took to rescue you.” He laughs, because he can't think of what else to do.

“Well, it felt a lot longer than that,” Crowley says, and kisses his cheek. “Poor angel. Poor me, for that matter. Think I'll have to take a raincheck for dinner.”

Aziraphale waves his hand. “Same.”

“Oh, good, your hair's back,” he notes, the next time he can open his eyes.

“Well, of course.” Crowley grunts and arranges himself not _quite_ so on top of Aziraphale. “Ow.”

“Mmm. Oh, you won't be able to feel the soles of your feet for a week. Might be best if you stayed off them as much as possible, actually. I started running out of miracle.”

Crowley examines the skin there, pink and new and tender. “Bloody great big miracle, don't blame you for leaving the last bit up to me.” He sighs and lays down next to Aziraphale, situating himself against his side, head resting on his chest, arm flung across his tummy. “Thanks again. Did I say that already? You were very scary and impressive.”

“You did, and you're welcome. I was very scared.” Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley's head, and tilts his chin up for a deeper kiss, tasting his mouth. “Don't like seeing you hurt, and all.”

“I'm sorry.” Crowley kisses him back, his tender-hearted angel who doesn't even blink, just charges in and sets the world to rights. “I'm here, though. Good as new, or nearly there. It'll be a bad memory soon.”

“Good, it can go join the others.” Aziraphale smiles at him, and pulls him a little closer, arms around Crowley's thin shoulders. “Leave us to our pleasures.”

“There's my angel,” Crowley says happily, and kisses him one more time before settling down. Early as it is, they'll sleep soon he thinks. It shouldn't refresh them, but it does, so they indulge. Besides, it's a good excuse to cuddle.

Aziraphale keeps his eyes open until Crowley is breathing deeply, sleeping and healing, and he lets himself go too, ready for tomorrow. They'll make new memories sweet as honey, and he can fuss over Crowley and keep him off his feet, and all the good things that come from being them.


	16. Lost

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Well. I didn't plan  _ this _ .”

He had  _ planned _ to come back to the little human settlement, but had miscalculated. By time or space, he couldn't really tell. There wasn't any vestige left of the village he'd lived in for over a year, but then the desert did tend to swallow these things up.

That also meant that there was a no clue as to the  _ direction _ anyone had gone. The world was new, and Aziraphale didn't know the desert as well as he ought. He probably should be able to miracle himself amidst the community, but he couldn't even be sure they still existed. Humans were awfully fragile, and the way time moved, he couldn't be sure he hadn't been away for a very long time. Heaven got confusing like that.

And anyway, he wasn't very good at those kinds of miracles, it was far too easy to wind up in the middle of a midden pile, or worse. Aziraphale did best when he at least knew a direction, had some idea of where in space he was going to end up. Something about understanding the speed he was travelling at (infinite) until he understood where he was (and his speed was nothing). Very odd. He really wasn't very good at this angel-ing business, he'd got  _ another _ talking-to about it, and he was trying so hard to be good.

So a miracle was out.

Aziraphale knelt in the desert, pleased his robes were long and thick and protected him from the hot sand. He pressed his hands together and looked up.

“Er, hello Lord,” he said. “It's me. Um. Aziraphale. Just. Well, if it's no trouble and you're not busy I  _ would _ rather appreciate a...sign. For which direction to go. Only it's quite a  _ big _ desert isn't it? You must like sand. I like sand!”

This was a lie, but he thought that might go unnoticed. Unfortunately, so did his entire prayer.

“Well, I'm sure I'll find someone, sometime,” he said, rising and starting to walk in a more or less random direction. “Trust in the Almighty and all!”

It is a lucky thing that angels don't need to eat or drink, though the sun beat down quite hard on Aziraphale, and he began to long for cold well-water in the shade of a palm tree. Even just a little sour wine to wet his mouth. His skin went unburned by the sun, but it was warm in the day and cold at night, and he didn't much like it.

He liked the way the winds whipped up the sands even less, and the way it made walking harder.

Aziraphale wasn't sure how many days he'd been plodding across the desert when the true sandstorm whipped up, and he started to worry a little. He was clumsy with miracles he did for himself, still, and didn't want to chance mucking up. But then, if he was buried, and discorporated –

“Angel!”

Aziraphale blinked and turned and squinted. Now where had that call come from? Oh –

_ Oh _ .

The demon Crowley stood in front of a small tent and waved.

“Oi! Angel! Get in here!”

Aziraphale hesitated, but perhaps this was a chance for more angelic workings. Yes! That must be it! He could stand up against the wily demon and hold his own and prove Heaven's strength. Also, he could get out of the sandstorm.

“Crowley,” he greeted, ducking into the tent. It was awfully small for something that was probably the result of a demonic miracle; when he and Crowley sat on the colorful rug that made up the floor, their knees touched.

“You remembered my name,” Crowley said, blinking. She was dressed as Aziraphale had seen her all those years ago, the last time they'd met. Black abaya, the length of fabric there to hide her eyes.

Aziraphale thought, just for a moment, that it was a shame. Crowley's eyes were striking. Lovely, even. As was her hair. And her long-limbed body, so unlike Aziraphale's own corporation.

He turned his mind away from such thoughts with long practice, and pasted on a polite smile.

“Of course I did. What on earth are you doing in the middle of the desert?”

Crowley turned and uncorked a wineskin, offering it to Aziraphale. The tent was small but rather cozy, lit by a single lantern that somehow filled the space with plenty of light to see. And to glint off of Crowley's red curls.

“Oh, demonic workings, that kind of thing,” Crowley said airily. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Er, well. I think, actually, well, I don't mind telling you. I'm lost,” Aziraphale confessed. “Got called up to Heaven and when I got back here everything was all...mixed up.”

Crowley nodded. “They do tend to move around quite a bit, don't they? You're close to a settlement, though. Another day of walking. How long have you been wandering?”

Aziraphale tried to remember through the haze of days and nights. The wine helped a little, the sharp taste of him putting him fully in his body. “Seven days?” he hazarded. “Ten?”

“Blimey!” Crowley's eyes, already so large and striking, got even larger. “Aziraphale, show me your feet.”

“What demonic wiles...?” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, but they shuffled around each other so he could stretch his legs out. “Oh.”

His feet were bloody and torn, sliced by his sandals and the long, difficult walk.

Crowley made a hissing sound, and eased the sandals off. Her hands were cool, comforting against his abused skin, and Aziraphale startled.

“Oh, Angel,” she said softly. “Why didn't you just miracle yourself there?”

“I. Ah. I didn't know where to go,” Aziraphale confessed. “What direction. I'm not very good at these things, you know. And besides,” he said, grasping at a Heavenly excuse, just to show Crowley who was who here. “It would be wrong to use God's gifts just to make myself more comfortable. I am here for the service of others, not myself.”

Crowley gave him a  _ very _ eloquent look, but held her tongue. “Hm. Well, I'm not.” She curled her hands around one of Aziraphale's feet and bent over, long hair falling over his leg.

Aziraphale held very still, and told himself it was because he was waiting for a demonic working to...to take his feet, or something equally awful, and then Crowley would vanish the tent and herself and leave him vulnerable and hurting in the midst of the sandstorm that still whirled about their tent.

Yes, that was it. And not because her hair was silky and beautiful, and her hands soothed pain he had ignored, and she was...kind.

Then the pain was gone fully from one foot, and then the other, and Crowley drew herself back upright. Aziraphale's feet were whole again, unhurt.

“Thank you,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Why are you being kind to me?”

Crowley shrugged. “I know you. You're about the only being on this whole planet I do know. I like you, I suppose. The humans do best when they band together, so maybe we do too.”

“But we're on opposite sides!”

“Yes. And that makes us our own side, in a way,” Crowley explained, and took a swig of wine. “Never mind. I didn't want to be in here with you whining about your feet hurting, all right?”

Aziraphale hadn't even mentioned the pain he was in, perhaps because he had taken it as a given, but this was as good an excuse as any.

“All right,” he grumbled. “But we're enemies, and don't you forget it, my dear. Oh, thank you,” he said, when she handed the wineskin over.

They stayed like that for as long as the sandstorm lasted, drinking wine and sharing stories of the humans. Though it had been some time since Noah, they found they often were in the same places, just as different times. Until now, of course.

When the air cleared, they pushed their way out of the little tent, and Crowley disappeared it with a snap. “Well, let's get walking then,” she said, arranging her clothing carefully to protect against the sun, and cover her face when needed. “This way.”

“I. Oh.” Aziraphale had intended to continue his journey alone, but of course Crowley would also want to go to a human settlement, to offer temptations while Aziraphale did his good workings. Well, he supposed it made sense. Good and evil locked in eternal embrace and all.

Hm. Embrace. Well, in eternal workings. Certainly not an embrace.

He hurried after Crowley and caught up quickly, the two of them walking side-by-side through the new-made world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley definitely got that 'my ANGEL is in TROUBLE' sensor installed pretty early, yeah?


	17. Trembling

When Aziraphale got nervous, his hands trembled. This was annoying at best, frankly because he was often nervous. One got like that, knowing Heaven was always peering over one's shoulder, ready to swoop down with a scolding or, even worse, a medal and a recall to Heaven. So he had learned to hold his hands in front of him or behind his back. It looked very proper, and while it didn't still the trembling, it disguised it well enough.

When he was truly terrified, his whole body trembled. That was what was supposed to happen when you were in the presence of God, but Aziraphale sometimes thought he maybe proved that God was everywhere. Because, again, nervous. Fear of angels, fear of what they would say. Fear of the good and the bad – why couldn't the world just stay the  _ same _ ?

But that would mean the end of things, and he knew that. You couldn't freeze things in place, you couldn't keep people from moving around, and he wouldn't want to stop anyway. Stopping would mean no more popping over to interesting places with Crowley, and usually eating and drinking their way through them. So movement must continue, lest the world end.

And change could be good; now he didn't have Heaven looming over him. Now they were left alone. Now he had a side, and it was Crowley's side, and all that went with that was good.

But it meant that Aziraphale's hands were trembling, as he sat beside Crowley on the sofa, seconds away from their first romantic kiss.

_ Crowley _ didn't tremble, Aziraphale was sure of it. He was too cool, too sure of himself, too... _ Crowley _ .

(Sure, instead he hid behind sarcasm and dark glasses, but everyone must have a coping technique. And right now his glasses were off and he was smiling so, dammit, he was calm and happy and ready, the way Aziraphale  _ ought _ to be.)

He took a deep breath, and lifted his shaking hand to Crowley's shoulder. “Right.”

Crowley nodded, eyes going wider somehow. Not even an attempt at human irises. “Ah. Er.” He made a few other noises that weren't words.

Aziraphale tightened his other hand, but that just made him shake all over. Oh, this was so  _ stupid _ . They loved each other! They should kiss!

So he leaned in, and kissed Crowley. It was dry, and didn't last very long, and definitely was not a good kiss, but their lips pressed together, so it counted.

“Oh,” he said when it was done, and let out a breath, but still his traitorous hands shook.

“Ack,” Crowley said, and licked his lips. “Uh.”

“That was terrible,” Aziraphale said. “I am so sorry.”

“Er,” Crowley said, and paused, and put his face in his hands. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, no, take your time. Um.” Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“You're shaking like a leaf,” Crowley said.

“Are you  _ crying _ ?” Aziraphale asked at the same time.

Crowley looked up and Aziraphale looked at him properly and yes, there were definitely tears in his eyes.

Aziraphale bit down on his lips. This was probably hysterical laughter bubbling up. None of this was  _ funny, _ they were both having breakdowns because they'd had their first kiss! It was a terrible kiss, but still!

Crowley snorted.

Aziraphale smiled.

They gave into laughing together at the same time, falling together. Oh, they should have started like this, giggling into each others' shoulders. Crowley's arms were wiry and so deliciously  _ there _ , wrapped around Aziraphale and holding him close, and nothing could ever get to him in Crowley's embrace. And, in turn, his arms around Crowley's shoulders, hands spanning his back, warming him. Breathing in the smell of him, and the feel of soft hair pressed against his cheek.

They laughed together, truly joyful, holding one another, and pulled back long enough to smile, and kiss. A good one, this time, mouths going soft under each other, parting just a little. Warm and tender and everything that was good about what they were together.

“You're still shaking,” Crowley said warmly, when the kiss ended. “Am I that frightening?”

“A little,” Aziraphale confessed. “You have tears in your eyes.”

“Do not.”

“Well then, I'm not shaking,” Aziraphale said. “You're imagining things.” He kissed Crowley's cheek, arms still firm around him. “I love you.”

As it turned out, Crowley could tremble under too much everything as well.


	18. Touch-Starved

Angels did not touch one another. Nor did demons, which might come as a surprise. They preferred to enact their revenges on one another in other ways, and angels simply saw no reason to brush corporations against one another in any way. It was exasperating enough to  _ have _ one; why would you use it to interact with others, beyond the most necessary actions? Besides, that was all very...messy.

And this was why Aziraphale could count on both hands the number of hugs he'd gotten in his life. It had been a pretty big day when he'd reached hand number two – that was down to Warlock. In fact, Warlock was fully one-half of the hugs he'd received in six thousand years. Another reason to particularly treasure that time in his life.

He still didn't have to take his boots off, so to speak, when he joined Crowley on the bus and in a burst of drunken bravery, had taken his hand. Hugs were a convenient counter, but it wasn't as though he'd been touched very often period.

(In the early days, he had thought he was dying, he ached for contact so badly. He daydreamed, for centuries, about what he should have done on the Eastern Gate. About how when Crowley took shelter under his wing, he ought to have put an arm out, gathered him close, and given himself a memory to cherish through the years. These were the slight dreams of an angel not quite made right.)

They were both exhausted and sooty, and a little overcome, so Aziraphale didn't notice the effect of his touch on Crowley that time. And then it was all getting back to Crowley's flat, and uncomfortable cold spaces, and figuring out their plan. A handshake started their switch, and the same to end it, and it was still more than Aziraphale had been touched in year.

The champagne at the Ritz was more than welcome, to calm the feeling that his nerves had all turned to needles, because Crowley had touched him. Crowley had  _ been _ him, and he Crowley, and hadn't that been amazing? He'd gotten dressed, sliding hands over long legs, feeling hard bone under the skin. Touching a flat tummy and smiling, pleased with his best friend's corporation. It was skinny and the hips didn't work right, and he tried to be good but it was nearly as nice as being touched by Crowley himself, to run fingertips over long limbs and hair the colour of flame.

So their little celebration – it had been good. They hadn't needed to touch; Aziraphale thought he might be all right for a few more years, before his skin felt too empty and cold and he ached for another body near his. He and Crowley had toasted the world, by which they meant the world and especially each other. Anything was possible.

And, apparently, anything meant going back to the bookshop. It meant Aziraphale pleased to see it back, though of course he'd never seen it gone. And it meant Crowley taking a shaky deep breath and touching the shelves, assuring himself it was all here. And turning to Aziraphale, opening his arms, and assuring himself that the angel was still there.

Their bodies shook when they came together. WarmStrongLoveHeLovesMeBeingTouchingCloseLove tumbled through Aziraphale's mind as he held onto Crowley, who seemed to be clinging just as desperately to him. He closed his eyes, drinking the feeling, his skin quiet and calm for the first time in how many centuries? Too many. Crowley was holding him, and it was everything.

They parted and Aziraphale blinked, trying to find his bearings. He was dizzy, not sure he was in his body fully again, had they begun to switch once more? It wasn't clear.

“Sitting,” Crowley said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and turned, thinking about the sofa, when Crowley plopped down right there on the floor, so of course Aziraphale did too, the two of them sprawling.  _ Their legs tangled together _ .

It became a funny story, later, not that they told it to anyone else. But Aziraphale would gleefully remind Crowley that, the first time Aziraphale reached for him and gathered him close in a hug, he passed out.

It wasn't very funny at the time, feeling the demon go heavy and limp in his arms. There might have been a grain of resentment too – going by his starry vision, Aziraphale was pretty sure he ought to've been the one swoon. But it was Crowley who got there first, and at least he had the good grace to come to a few moments later after Aziraphale had laid him out on the floor and was wringing his hands, not entirely sure how to revive a demon.

“Fuck.” Crowley covered his face with his hands. “ _ Fuck _ . I'm ruining this.”

“No, you're not,” Aziraphale said, perhaps a little sharply. “Crowley.” He took a deep breath. “I. I've wanted that for so long.”

Crowley nodded, face still covered. “Me too,” he said, voice muffled.

“I thought I was disgusting,” Aziraphale said softly. “To want to be touched.”

_ That _ got Crowley's attention, his hands coming down, reaching for Aziraphale, one hand resting gently on his knee. “You're not,” he said, voice harsh with feeling. “Not at all. Whatever they tried to make you think, they're wrong.”

Aziraphale gave him a sad smile. “I know that now. But only – you should know. I. I have always craved...touch. And gotten so little of it.”

“Really? 'Cause Gabriel seems like the type to want to awkwardly hug it out.”

Aziraphale shuddered, and smiled, because Crowley had made him smile. He rested his hand on Crowley's belly, fingertips just touching the hollow where his ribs joined his sternum. “Ugh. No, no. He always said touch...soiled his corporation. He said that about food too,” Aziraphale said sadly.

“Arsehole,” Crowley said, and levered himself up. They were a little more careful this time, sitting facing one another, hips aligning and arms loose around the others' waist. “He's such a fuckwit. I'm glad I scared him.” His lips went thin. “He hates you, you know.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“I love you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, lips starting to curve, gazing down at his lap. His silly, soft corporation. He loved it, because it let him eat and walk through parks and hold Crowley like he was doing right that moment. “I love you too.”

“Oh.” Crowley's voice broke.

“Surely you knew that!”

Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale, not thinking, pulled him into a hug, pulled him so he sat on Aziraphale's lap, tucked in his arms.

“No,” Crowley tried to protest. “I mean. I knew? I think? I just didn't. Expect.” He made some noises, looked like he was going to turn into a snake for a moment, then shook and pressed against Aziraphale. “Didn't expect you to say it.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, a little too loudly. He wanted to kiss Crowley's forehead, but that really  _ might _ kill one of them, he thought, so instead he held his dearest. Maybe a little too tight or too stiff, but he thought he might be forgiven.

“Demons don't touch either.” They had, eventually, moved to a softer surface. Aziraphale had considered offering up his bed, but worried that might be moving a little too fast, especially since Crowley had barely been able to walk once they were up off of the floor. The sofa was closer, anyway, and perfectly comfortable.

They wound up sprawled across it, Aziraphale tucked between Crowley's legs, head resting on his chest. He thought he might have felt a ghost of a kiss on his hair, but decided to ignore it. One of them fainting was quite enough, thank you. And besides, he was busy trying to stay in his corporation as Crowley's legs, long and strong, bracketed his own, and Crowley's arms held him close.

“Really? But I thought, uh. Temptation?”

Crowley shook his head. “That's the succubi and incubi, not me. And they only touch humans.” He made a face. “To be fair, everyone's a bit, well, manky.”  
“You aren't,” Aziraphale said. “You feel very nice. And you smell good.”

“I've gone native,” Crowley reminded him. “Any other angels wear cologne?”

“Er, well. No,” Aziraphale admitted. And then, fascinated. “You really don't touch?”

“Really.” Crowley smiled down at him and Aziraphale smiled up at him, closing his eyes in pleasure when Crowley traced the line of his brow with a gentle fingertip. “I don't remember the last time –“

“Warlock?”

“Must have been,” Crowley mused quietly. “Yes, I think you're right. And few and far between before him.”

“Same for me,” Aziraphale said, and turned his face, burying it in Crowley's chest for a moment. “Did you ever feel like your skin was going to flay itself off?”

Crowley paused. Froze, really, under him.

“You felt that too?” he asked. “Satan's balls. I thought it was only me...”

Aziraphale shook his head, spreading his hands wide, trying to just  _ touch _ as much as he could. “I thought I was starving to death, somehow,” he murmured.

“Oh, angel...”

“Could say the same to you, my dearest.” Aziraphale nuzzled his face against Crowley's shirt, and smiled when he felt the demon's heartbeat go faster. “Steady there.”

“You steady,” Crowley grumbled. “I'll rub up against you like a kitten and see how you like it.”

“Well, go on then,” Aziraphale challenged, grinning now.

“I will!” Crowley laughed and flipped them neatly on the narrow sofa, landing and squirming so he lay atop Aziraphale, their legs tangled again. He put his head down, and in a motion that was indeed catlike, nuzzled Aziraphale's shoulder.

“Oh. Oh my.” Aziraphale swallowed hard. “Goodness.”

“Tolja.” Crowley settled himself with a little sigh. “Oh, you feel  _ amazing _ .”

“So do you,” Aziraphale murmured. Feeling bold, he slipped his fingers into Crowley's hair, combing out the short locks. His nails were blunt, but just long enough that he could give a little scritch.

The sound Crowley made was  _ amazing _ , and set them both off giggling again, Aziraphale hugging Crowley as close as he could.

They lay together all through the night, Crowley even forgetting to sleep, they were so lost in touching one another. They figured out the best ways their bodies fit together, and a few ways they didn't. (There was an awkward moment as Crowley caught an elbow in the face, but this lead to anxious noises and Aziraphale gently touching and healing his cheekbone, and some more anxious noises and getting cuddled, so it was all worth it. Also, it hadn't actually hurt.) They pressed skin to skin, and skin to cloth, feeling body heat through cotton and wool. Crowley fulfilled his fondest dream by getting to lie with his head on Aziraphale's tummy, arms around his hips, and just  _ let go _ , feeling nothing but warm and soft.

It was around breakfast time that it occurred to them that kissing was a thing they could do, too.

“Now, don't you pass out on me again,” Azriraphale said. “I'm going to get a complex.”

“Don't flatter yourself, angel,” Crowley said. He looked around him. “Er. Have you got...more soft surfaces anywhere?”

“Well, I do have a bed,” Aziraphale said, and smiled up at Crowley through his eyelashes. “If that's not moving a little too fast.”

“It's really amazing that you were Victorian before the Victorians,” Crowley marvelled. “Bed it is.”

Aziraphale took his hand and led him upstairs to the mezzanine, and through the small door that connected to the little flat. The bedroom was right there, and Crowley was reminded of an anchorite's cell.

But that wasn't right, was it? Because Aziraphale wasn't alone, and he wasn't without touch or love or contact with the world.

The room was small, not very much larger than the bed, and with only a skylight to let light in. It showed an overcast day, unsurprisingly, but the light was muted and made everything feel soft and safe.

They lay on the bed together, facing one another, and Crowley reached out to pet Aziraphale's hair, figuring out where arms went and how to pull their bodies together. He traced Aziraphale's lips with a fingertip, marvelling a little. His mouth was – well, it was  _ pretty _ , and he told the angel so.

“Oh, go off. Just kiss me already, won't you?”

“Demanding thing!” Crowley laughed, and kissed him, trying not to think too hard about it.

When Aziraphale came to, a few moments later, it was to the sound of demonic laughter. Which was far sweeter and funnier and kinder than he'd ever known it to be described, but then he had a demon who was all of those things too, so it ought not have been surprising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell I reeeeeally liked this prompt?


	19. Hallucination

Crowley paused on the outskirts of the village, listening. It was winter, though, and quiet. What would have been too quiet, but he was accustomed to this silence now, this not-people.

He had heard the rumours a few days' journey away, where everyone was dying instead of dead. The man had been hallucinating, his fever so high Crowley feared his hand would burn when he touched him. He lanced the great, horrible buboes under the man's skin. Sometimes that helped. Mostly it didn't. It hadn't that time, but as he'd worked over him, the poor creature had screamed, and wept, and told him of an angel who was nearby, an angel they said was healing people. How he wasn't frightening, as the priests said, how he was gentle and old and tired.

It was even odds that the man was truly hallucinating – Christianity was certainly taking a _turn_ at the moment – but in case he wasn't, Crowley could only imagine one angel who would try to stand against a plague.

They couldn't fall ill, but they could work themselves to exhaustion, and Aziraphale would. He would fuss and bitch the entire time and be very coy about the whole thing, but he would also work himself to the bone if there was a chance to save people.

And perhaps, in this landscape of death and sickness that spread faster than anything anyone could ever remember, Crowley wanted a friend.

This was the third village he'd come to. The first had been full of bodies, and Crowley buried the ones he could find and not even stayed the night, though the manor-house was nicer than most he'd seen since leaving the North. There was too much death, and it did him no harm to walk through the night.

The second had been empty, any survivors fled. Crowley wasn't sure where you could flee too – Scotland? An island? So far and so fast and so deep into the wild places that the plague couldn't find you? And then how would you live?

He had spent the night there, and gathered some food, apologizing to those who had harvested the apples and baked the bread and made the ale. Aziraphale would probably want some food. He liked eating.

Crowley skirted around the tiny chapel, avoiding the holy ground and returned the road.

And now here, deep in midwinter's crackling cold. It was so bloody _cold_ in the country, even summers were cold and wet, and why had he even come here? Why was he _drawn_ here? The land, the people he liked despite himself, Aziraphale? Alone none of them made sense, but when you put them together, you got a demon who didn't flee on the coming of death. You got him, Crowley, who tried to comfort the soon-to-be-dead and buried the dead and wondered where all the living had got to.

“Halloa!” he called out, walking down the muddy path between the huts.

“_Crowley_? Is that you?” Oh, those plummy tones. Crowley had guessed right, as Aziraphale appeared in the doorway of one of the larger, neater huts, enough so you could call it a house. A miracle, good taste, or just been here long enough? All three were likely, with his angel involved.

“Thought I'd find you here,” Crowley said casually. “Met a man, said he'd seen an angel. Wanted to see what trouble you were getting up to. Are you forgetting your wings again?”

“Oh, really! That was _once_! Do come in, my dear, I've got a bit of stew on the fire, you must join me.”

Crowley ducked into the single-roomed building, like all the others in all the other villages he'd been to. This was the first in a long time that was cozy and didn't stink of death. “Aziraphale,” he asked, more quietly. “Why was a dying man telling me he saw an angel?”

“Oh, you know how the fever takes them, they start hallucinating and oh _Crowley_ don't _look_ at me like that,” Aziraphale begged. “I'm not supposed to heal them, if Up There finds out I'll get another demerit, and I've gotten so many. I don't like to think what they might add up to.”

“Well, _I_ won't tell them,” Crowley pointed out. “So. Been healing the humans?”

“Well, no. Usually this takes them too quickly for me to get there,” Aziraphale said. “But I. I've been trying. The children are easier. And the rest.” He shrugged, and bustled at twice the rate. “I give them what I can.”

“All anyone can ask, angel,” Crowley said. He set out his bounty on the table, ready to share a little feast.

“I suppose your lot are enjoying this,” Aziraphale said. “Plenty of anger at God to go around.”

Crowley shrugged. “I haven't talked to anyone in awhile. Think they're all staying away.”

“But you're not,” Aziraphale said.

“No,” Crowley said. “I'm not.”

“Crowley, why was someone dying of the plague talking to you?”

“Making a deal with the devil of course,” Crowley said quickly.

Aziraphale snorted, and put a bowl in front of him. “Eat it while it's hot.”

Crowley wasn't hungry, but the concept of _hot_ was pretty inviting, so he did as told. The soup was bland, but filling enough, and certainly warming. It made the bread edible, when he dipped it in, and they finished by sharing the ale he'd brought, supplementing Aziraphale's own stores.

“Have you found anything that helps?” Aziraphale asked suddenly. “Any kind of...cure?”

Crowley shook his head. “If you lance the buboes, sometimes--”

Aziraphale sighed. “So they say. I've never seen it work myself. Have you?”

Crowley was quiet. “Sometimes it speeds their way,” he finally said. “A mercy. Perhaps.”

“A mercy to not live to see such times,” Aziraphale agreed, rubbing his forehead. His eyes were dark in the dim light. Crowley always liked that best, when Aziraphale's eyes went dark. He was most honest, then.

“A mercy for them, to have help on their way,” Crowley said. “You're doing what you can for them. I know you are.”

“But it's not _enough_,” Azirapale said, and closed his eyes tightly. “I have dug so many graves, Crowley.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know how that is.” Crowley swallowed. “Look. Hell's keeping away, and it sounds like Heaven is too,” and didn't he have some opinons on _that_, there being one solitary, tired, poor angel doing his best, “so why don't we travel together? We can.” He looked down at his mug. “Well, two can dig graves better than one.”

“It's only sensible,” Aziraphale said. “Besides, I've got to keep an eye on you. Adversary and all that.”

“Indeed,” Crowley said ironically, raising his glass in a salute. “Wouldn't want me to get away to create mischief.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, meeting his gaze steadily. It wasn't a thing he did often, but this was a world of fire and death and illness, so why wouldn't this change too? “I certainly wouldn't want you to go away from me.”

“Settled then,” Crowley muttered, drinking deep. At least he could keep an eye on the angel. Too many miracles tired him out. Crowley could dig graves while he made Aziraphale rest, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes an awful lot to Connie Willis' _The Doomsday Book_.


	20. Secret Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really born out of thinking about the things they might be afraid of when it came to each other. Aziraphale would never have expected forgiveness -- after all, Heaven didn't exactly forgive, so why should Crowley? And Crowley being afraid of making Aziraphale angry, or hurting him accidentally, so they're really both just too-carefully feeling each other out.
> 
> CW: blood, knives.

“I'm just saying, I was perfectly fine and there was no need whatsoever for you to step in,” Aziraphale said, letting them into the bookshop where they could have a drink in _peace_. Honestly, to be set upon by street thugs! In this day and age! He was embarrassed for everyone involved, himself included.

London, in Crowley's view, was one long, extended bad patch. National Front or Gin Lane, it was all about the same in his eyes. Through all of London's ups and downs his angel had survived it, Crowley was pretty sure, more or less by accident.

Or, in this case, some demonic intervention when Aziraphale was shoved up against a wall, a knife waved threateningly at him. The intervention consisted of Crowley yelling something along the lines of 'Oi, fuckhead, leave him alone!', a short scuffle, and now this.

He had also caught a knife in the side, but Aziraphale didn't need to know about that. A few minutes to sit down, and Crowley would be able to heal himself, his fussy angel none the wiser. It wouldn't help anything to do otherwise. Just worry Aziraphale and ruin their lovely night together, so Crowley tried to forget the pain in his side, or what might need doing.

Perhaps he sat down a little heavily on the sofa. Perhaps the cut in his side was more serious than he thought and it made him stupid, because mostly he felt numb and distant, which wasn't a thing he felt around Aziraphale ever. It wasn't important; they were safe indoors and could share a quiet drink, and Crowley sat carefully to keep blood from getting on anything.

Aziraphale was a bit less chatty than usual, subdued from their little fracas. He hadn't been afraid exactly; a slit throat wouldn't be fun but he also wouldn't have let it get to that. London was having a rough time, here at the end of the 20th century, and he did worry over the humans so, and worry over how to keep his little corner of the world safe. He was fine, of course; the kids living on the street were less so.

Still. The world had survived worse and Aziraphale had watched it do so. So he poured them each a glass of port, handed Crowley his, and frowned.

“Did I mess my hair up?” Crowley drawled, and winked.

“No,” Aziraphale said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “No, sorry. Imagining things.”

He wasn't, of course. But he didn't want to pry, either – it was hardly fifty years since he and Crowley had re-established their friendship. Since Crowley had _forgiven_ him, a gift Aziraphale had never thought he'd get. Aziraphale did not like going fast, and prying into things Crowley wanted to keep a secret felt fast. If he needed to know, Crowley would tell him, and in the meantime, they were friendly towards one another, and comfortable together again.

Perhaps they were both a little quieter that night, but that was all right; they could share warm conversation about the Proms, and which ones they might try to go to together. Of course, Aziraphale always went promming properly, sitting among the people and the grass and with a very nice picnic. Crowley was still not quite sure about it, but he was willing to give it a go, and trust that Aziraphale would ensure a decent basic level of creature comfort.

“I ought to be off home,” Crowley finally said, pretty sure he'd stopped actively bleeding some time ago. Perhaps he'd only got a scratch, easily hidden in his dark clothes.

“Of course, my dear. Thank you for a lovely evening.” Aziraphale stood politely, ready to walk Crowley to the front door, seeing him off with his usual cry of 'Mind how you go!' and already planning which volumes he was going to dive into until he had to decide if he was going to go through the great indignity of opening the shop tomorrow.

“Likewise,” Crowley said. He stood up, felt all of the blood rush out of his head, realized there was not _nearly_ the normal amount of blood in his body, went “Oh _shit_,” and collapsed right there not two feet from Aziraphale.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale threw himself down, catching Crowley before he even fully hit the ground. “You bloody idiot, I knew something was wrong!”

“'s nothing,” Crowley muttered as Aziraphale stripped his jacket off. He looked down at the blood soaking his shirt and, now, the angel's hands. “Okay, maybe it's something.”

“Why didn't you _say_ anything?” Aziraphale cried.

“Didn't...want to worry you?” Crowley tried.

“And that worked out _spectacularly_.” Aziraphale's mouth was a thin line as he pulled Crowley's shirt free of his jeans and got a good look at the wound. The knife had skittered across his ribs, but caught the soft skin below, an ugly gash on his waist. Crowley guessed it may have clotted as he sat, and standing had freshly reopened things. “Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said gently, and passed his hand over Crowley's side, healing the wound perfectly.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, and curled up a little, head on his knees. He felt dreadful, and still had to get home somehow.

“Hush now. You poor thing, you're absolutely soaked, how could you not notice? How could _I_ not notice?” Aziraphale was working up a really good fret, it was obvious. Crowley steadied himself to cheerfully reassure the angel that he shouldn't worry, ever, nothing to worry about, please don't get angry again and also then he could get himself home and collapse into bed for a week.

“It's all right.” Aziraphale's voice was noticeably gentler. Calmer? Perhaps. “Everything's all right now, sweetheart. You can take my bed, and I'll find you something dry to sleep in. You'll feel so much better in the morning.”

“I – no, you don't have to --”

“Well, I'm certainly not going to be using it.” Aziraphale slipped his arms under Crowley and neatly lifted him up, cradled against his chest. Crowley's brain, knowing what was good for it, went all staticky. It was wonderfully calm.

Aziraphale carried him up to his mostly-neglected flat, doors miracling open as they went, and settled Crowley on an antique four-poster bed. It was surprisingly comfortable; even the old candlewick bedspread wasn't so bad.

(Well, it could be worse. And the mattress was soft and there were an impossible number of pillows suddenly, so he wasn't going to complain.)

“Gonna stain...”

“You let me worry about that,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Now, off with all of this, I think. Oh, yes, your shoes – good heavens, Crowley, you don't _always_ have to miracle them, you can _buy_ snakeskin boots these days.” Aziraphale bustled about, helping him out of his clothes and using his ruined shirt to wipe the last streaks of blood off of Crowley's side. A pair of flannel pyjamas that normally Crowley would not be caught dead in were produced and got onto him. They were very old and soft and warm, not that Crowley would admit to that.

Besides, he was so sleepy. Maybe he could just nap a few hours, then take Aziraphale out for breakfast to say thanks, and everything would be all right. Make sure the angel knew that he didn't _have_ to do anything...

“There now. I'll be here all night,” Azirphale murmured, stroking Crowley's hair. “Rest, sweetheart. You've earned it.” And he leaned over, and kissed Crowley's temple. “Poor thing. I'm so sorry – I knew something was wrong but I didn't want to push you.”

Crowley tried to tell Aziraphale that he wasn't a poor thing at all, that he was the luckiest demon alive, that Aziraphale didn't have to _worry_, could go about whatever he liked to do. But the kiss had made his brain go all white-noise again, and then the blood-loss took over, and he quickly fell asleep.

Aziraphale settled back against the headboard, book in hand, one hand on Crowley's shoulder, just in case. Wouldn't do for him to wake, and think he wasn't cherished and cared for.

Wouldn't do at all.


	21. Humiliation

Aziraphale and Crowley felt the presence of the angels at the same time.

“Oh shit,” Crowley said, and dove behind a bookshelf.

“You idiot, they'll _sense_ you,” Aziraphale hissed.

“No they won't, the porn will mask me,” Crowley muttered back, tucking himself into a corner.

“I do not sell _porn_!”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Vintage erotica, fine, whatever. Go out and act natural!”

Aziraphale gave him a very dirty look, and went out into the main area of the shop to be ready to greet his angelic visitors. At least there was no one else in the shop; that always got terribly awkward. Aziraphale knew he wasn't what you'd call _great_ with people, but compared to angels, he was an accomplished socialite.

“Oh, hello,” he said politely. “Uriel. Gabriel. So lovely to see you.”

From his hiding place, Crowley shuddered. Eurgh, _Gabriel_. King of the wankers, that one.

“Aziraphale! I don't know how you survive here. Do you know someone _brushed against me_ when I was walking here? They were very small.”

“A child, sir.” Uriel actually just lightly terrified Crowley. She seemed to be a little smarter than the others, or perhaps she mostly knew to keep her mouth shut. Same effect.

“Ew, that's right, they..._reproduce_.”

Crowley thought of holding Warlock when he was just a few months old, moving his finger and watching, fascinated, as the baby tracked the movements, and rolled his eyes something fierce.

“Well! What can I do for you both today?” Aziraphale's voice was trying to be warm and expansive and welcoming, and failing utterly. Why was he so _nervous_? He was worth any ten of the other angels put together. At least.

“We can't come on a social call?” Gabriel asked.

“Er. Well. Of course you can! Just. You never have. Before?” Crowley winced – he could just _see_ Aziraphale's hands folded nervously in front of him, his fussy little angel. There would have to be champagne after this. And cake. Lots of both.

“First time for everything,” Uriel said. Crowley winced. If this _was_ a social call, he quite understood why Aziraphale, friendly and kind if a bit weird, had gone so native. Well, understood even _more_.

“No, but really,” Gabriel said, still in that fake-friendly voice. “We wanted to let you know the results of the initiative you suggested at the last all-staff day.”

“I didn't...”

“Oh, I know the suggestion box was supposed to be anonymous, but Uriel here's quite the armchair detective!”

Crowley pulled out his phone and started looking up the most exclusive restaurants in a fifty-mile radius. He was going to have to take Aziraphale someplace _nice_ tonight to celebrate.

“I watched you fill out the slip of paper and put it in. And it was the only one in the box,” Uriel said, and okay, Crowley had to stifle a giggle. Trust his angel to do...all of that. To provide a _real suggestion_, too, not just write something rude and draw a willy.

If Hell ever had a suggestion box, it would be overflowing.

“Oh, er. Well. Yes.” Crowley could _hear_ Aziraphale straighten his waistcoat. “How...how did that go? I thought it was quite a good idea myself, and I just want to say that I'm terribly pleased that Heaven took it under consideration. It's a great honour.”

Crowley winced. Full head-up-his-bum-mode Aziraphale was sometimes a little rough to take. Still, these kinds of things must be celebrated, and it wasn't like Gabriel was going to be useful for this. Probably another medal to join the other one, wherever it was.

“Oh, that's just it,” Gabriel said. “It was dismissed. Unanimously. Heaven felt that our PR department was already stretched too thin, you see. Quite impossible.”

“...Oh.”

There it was! The most exclusive, fanciest dining option in the Berkshires! Five-year waiting list! They served you food in an old-growth forest and every one of the many, _many_ tasting courses was inspired by a nearby tree or a bush or something. Also it appeared they served actual food, not just scented air and a dribble of something on a plate. Aziraphale would _lose his shit_.

Crowley worked a miracle so reckless and loud he worried for a moment that he might overcome the collective aura of books written by some _very_ repressed people. (And some who weren't repressed at all, bless them.) Then he remembered the dumbest fucking angels in the world were about twenty feet away, and stopped worrying.

“We just wanted to let you know,” Uriel said, far too sweetly. “Your suggestions are...generally impractical, Aziraphale. Perhaps you've been away from the Head Office for too long.”

Crowley froze in place.

“Now now, no need for that!” Ugh, Gabriel's voice just..._ugh_. “Aziraphale has been doing a _wonderful_ job for us down here on Earth!” The sound of a hearty clap on the back. “As you can see, he's quite settled in! You'd hardly know he was a soldier for our Lord, look at him!”

“Quite,” Uriel said.

Aziraphale emitted a little laugh, and Crowley cringed so hard he almost dislocated something. Fuck. Fuck. If he had roses waiting for Aziraphale at dinner, would that be too much?

Nah. He was a naturally too-much kind of demon. Another very loud demonic working – and _really now_, if he was still undetected, what in the hell did the angel have in these stacks? Well, Crowley'd need some cover, so after he made sure that a very tasteful nosegay of Aziraphale's favourite flowers would be at his place-setting, and a completely un-tasteful pile of roses filled his bedroom, he picked a book at random and flipped it open. Silently, of course, wouldn't do to give himself away and have to oh, say, breathe hellfire into Uriel's face to get away. That would be dreadful.

“Well, message delivered!” Gabriel said cheerfully.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his voice thin. “Thank you. Quite. Appreciate it really. Good day.”

Crowley counted slow in his head. Five seconds after the door closed. Six. Maybe seven.

“You can come out now,” Aziraphale said, brave and bitter, and Crowley strolled out of the stacks.

“Lummy, angel, I didn't know you had _this_, lookit where that rope is going!” Crowley said with the nonchalance of someone who has definitely been immersing himself in antique porn and not listening to his best friend be humiliated by his boss.

Aziraphale did not look, and Crowley tossed the book aside. “'S'boring anyway. You want to know what's not boring?”

“I'm sorry, I'm really not--”

“Dinner for two at Celyn.”

Aziraphale paused and blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Get your coat, angel, we've got to set off now if we're to make our reservation.”

“Crowley! I – what – ?”

Crowley winked at him, and collected the angel's overcoat from the rack, helping him into it. If he was a little more tender than usual, well, no one need say anything.

“C'mon. My treat. I heard the forest's lovely this time of year.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. Maybe a little harder than usual, and smiled, small and tentative. “You're really...truly?”

“Truly,” Crowley promised. He fixed Aziraphale's bowtie and sorted out his collar, settling everything just right, and buttoning his coat up, finishing with an affectionate pat to Aziraphale's tummy. “There we go. Your car awaits, angel.” He held out his arm to Aziraphale, who took it, still a little dazed.

“Crowley...”

“Shut it,” Crowley advised. “C'mon. Dinner. I know you, you'll want to wander the grounds when we get there. Should be a lovely sunset,” he mused, and the sunset planned to be absolutely beautiful, preceded by a perfect golden hour, because it knew what was good for it.

Aziraphale visibly gave up, and smiled, and tucked his arm closer into Crowley's, the two of them pressed together as they crossed the street to the Bentley.

“I think it will be a lovely night with you, indeed,” he offered, as Crowley opened the passenger-side door for him.

Crowley just winked, and closed the door, and got in behind the wheel. He might not even go too fast – just enough to get them there in time.


	22. Abandoned

Crowley mostly doesn't remember the Fall. Perhaps because there wasn't much nuance to it. Ask the wrong questions, hang out with the wrong crowd, skydiving time because God doesn't play that. Boiling sulphur is immediate and without nuance. There aren't many details to remember about wings burned black and eyes changed. Even the whole shape-shifting thing isn't worth remembering; one moment he had limbs, the next he didn't.

So he knows he Fell, obviously. Knows he was abandoned by God. Every creature has the right to forgiveness, the right to atone for what they did – except for demons. 'Abandoned' is such a passive term for what happened, but Crowley thinks it counts.

He remembers what happened after a little bit better. The time in Hell, where he was mostly a snake because it was minimally comfortable that way. His time in Eden, watching and waiting, whispering at the right time and watching Man and Woman tumble out of Paradise. He's still not sure how he feels about that, but having met an awful lot of humans, rather thinks they might be grateful to him, deep down. Well, the ones who aren't making stupid rules about Original Sin, anyway.

And then, oh, then the memories are crisp, going from distant shadow-dark to clear and bold as day. Then he remembers slithering up a wall, then he remembers Aziraphale; his feet and his wingtips, then all of him, worrisome and relived and beautiful. And he remembers the first rainstorm, drops soft on the earth and not on him, because the angel is giving him shelter from the storm.

He was abandoned by Heaven, then taken up by Hell. And now he is abandoned by Hell, as near as he can tell. He is still immortal and still a demon, but the ways back there are closed off to him. The demonic workings are a little harder, and he's more careful, in case they're a battery running down. He thinks not; he kept his powers when he fell from Heaven. Same stock – Aziraphale had proved _that_, his creative, conniving angel.

And besides, he had been found again. Abandoned twice, but never a third time, because now he's Aziraphale's and Aziraphale is his.

And now they lie together on their bed, a lush spring afternoon after a rainstorm. They're discovering nice things to do to each others' bodies, and taking their time about it. Aziraphale is sleeping off their latest series of experiments, and very precious about it he is too. Naked as can be, curled up on his side, his tummy pressed into Crowley's hip, he's all soft and pink and gold and beautiful.

Crowley smiles down at him, lazy and sleepy, and thinks of all the good things they do together. Not just the curious things where they find what makes the other moan or giggle or gasp, but the picnics and drives and fancy dinners, and not-fancy dinners. It's a very nice change, he thinks, to belong.


	23. Infection

“Well, that was a bloody close one!”

Aziraphale was giggling, maybe a _touch_ hysterical, but also happily – they'd got away! “You're – Crowley! Now is not the time for a snog! – you're _useless_ in a fight, I hope you know that.”

“We can't all be angels of the Eastern Gate,” Crowley parried. Also, it was 100% time for a snog, because anytime was a good time to kiss his angel. “Anyway, that was an easy one.”

“For you!” Aziraphale smiled, his clothes already clean and neat again, and his gait slowed to his usual stiff-backed walk.

“Didn't see you breaking a sweat,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale's hand and swinging their arms cheerfully.

“May it always be little skirmishes like that,” Aziraphale said firmly. He hadn't expected to break up a fight between minor angels and even more minor demons, as though they were a group of schoolchildren, but that was the world after the apocalypse-that-wasn't.

“Oh, surely. No one else is _quite_ that dumb,” Crowley said thoughtfully. He raised Aziraphale's hand to kiss his knuckles, and started a little at the pull in his shoulder. No – his wing.

“All right then?” Aziraphale asked, catching Crowley's little twitch of pain.

“'Course angel. Must've caught a scratch somewhere is all.” Crowley slipped his arm around Aziraphale's waist and kissed him just before they parted ways to get into the Bentley. “Nothing to worry about.”

The discomfort in his shoulder grew as they returned to London, though, a little niggle becoming genuinely painful, and not just when he used his right arm. It was impossible to hide, and anyway, Crowley was a champion whiner and felt no need to hide even a second of his discomfort – especially when he figured it was probably nothing. He had a vague memory of one of the demons feinting at him with a nasty-looking blade, but reckoned it was probably no more than a scratch.

Aziraphale stopped him in the great rotunda of the bookshop, the only spot really big enough to let his wings out and stretch, and crossed his arms and looked very stern, so Crowley sighed and made as big a production as he could out of bringing his wings into this plane of existence.

The stab of pain that went all down his right side as soon as he stretched his wings out had him making a gutteral sound. He would have gone down to his knees if Aziraphale hadn't been right there to catch him.

“Crowley!”

“It's probably nothing, my wings are just tender – oh.” Crowley looked over his right shoulder, and was glad he was being mostly held up.

There was a gash in his wing across the great bone, the thin skin torn and bloody. It wasn't an ordinary cut, though – he had already lost feathers around it, something withering them away. The flesh beneath, such as it was, was swollen and red, and ugly matter oozed from the wound.

“Oh, my poor dear,” Aziraphale breathed. “It's infected.”

Crowley swallowed. “The demon. The little one, with the snake hat, I thought it was just a scratch Aziraphale, honest.”

“Well, I don't exactly see Hell sanitizing their blades before they go into battle,” Aziraphale said, practical primness taking over, and that was how Crowley knew he was worried. “Up and into bed with you, my love. I'll just wash this out and try a little angelic healing, and you'll be right as rain in no time.”

“Of course,” Crowley said. Maybe if they both pretended this was an ordinary infection, it would be. And Aziraphale was half-carrying him to bed because he was a lazy demon who was very demonic and enjoyed shoving as much work off on his angel as he could.

That thought at least made him smile as he was tipped into bed, and he had the great gift of an answering smile from Aziraphale.

“There now, sweetheart, won't be a moment,” Aziraphale promised, kissing his brow before his weight left the bed.

Crowley dozed a little. Lying down, his wing stretched out a bit, it wasn't so bad. Maybe it _was_ just an ordinary infection. From a demon. Yeah, that never ended poorly?

Aziraphale cleaned the cut out as best he could, making very encouraging sad little noises over the torn and swollen skin, and Crowley felt very petted and loved as he lay there, soaking in the sympathy.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked, laying his hand over the wound.

“Mmmhmm.” Crowley smiled at him. “Thanks.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Let's just see --” Aziraphale drew a gentle fingertip down the edge of the cut, intending to heal. He'd done this for Crowley before, dozens of times – he and knives didn't always get along wonderfully.

This time, though, little sparks flew up, and Crowley howled, rolling away, his wing snapping in close to his body. Aziraphale got out of the way just in time before he was accidentally sent flying.

“Oh my dear!” He was back instantly, of course, kneeling by Crowley and petting his hair. “I'm so sorry.”

“Nnnnn. Not your fault,” Crowley managed, and rolled over. His wing was still tightly folded, close to his body, but he wanted his angel. And got him, of course, Aziraphale curling around him, his own wings out now and making a pale cave for them to hide in.

“Crowley, this isn't a normal wound,” Aziraphale said softly, when they had calmed a little. He was still holding Crowley close, stroking his hair. “What do you need? What can I do?”

“It's demonic. Maybe poison?” Crowley shook his head. “I can try to heal it...” He closed his eyes and tucked himself a little closer. Concentrate. God, his head ached, but he focused on finding the poison and rooting it out.

He thought he'd had a little success, though it left him tired and weak. “I'll just keep working at it,” he mumbled.

“You take care of your wing, and I'll take care of you,” Aziraphale agreed. “Sleep, darling. I'll wash the wound again, and you'll feel so much better when you wake up.”

Crowley smiled, eyes still closed, just a few breaths from sleep. “Love you.”

“And I love you.” A little kiss laid on each eyelid, a blessing that wouldn't harm him. “Go to sleep, you worked so hard.”

“Didn't.” And then Crowley gave into exhaustion, this strange feeling that he'd got used to, that his body now felt.

Aziraphale had clearly washed his wound and tried to bandage it, or at least soak up some of the dark stuff that seeped out of it, but Crowley didn't feel any better when he woke up. Considerably worse, actually.

“Can you try to heal it a little more?” Aziraphale asked anxiously, after he'd made Crowley drink a little water.

Crowley nodded and lay back. His whole body ached now, too hot and his skin too tight. Aziraphale took his hand though, and looked so encouraging, he thought he might be able to do this. He was stronger than any minor demon, anyway.

It was even harder this time, and he'd gained less ground.

“Shit,” he managed to say, before passing out again, heart aching at the look on Aziraphale's face.

“It's getting worse.”

Crowley wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but Aziraphale was right there when he woke up – not that that meant anything, the angel was hardly going to pop out for lunch. He couldn't even sit up under his own power anymore, and his body blazed, no matter how much Aziraphale wiped him down with a flannel soaked in cold water.

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice rasping. “Can't heal it. Needs to be burned out. Need hellfire.” He took a deep breath and managed to sit up. “Got to get to hell.”

“Crowley, don't be ridiculous, you can't even get out of bed!” Aziraphale pushed him back down. “I'll get it for you.”

“Angel, _no!_”

“Angel, yes,” Aziraphale said, and smiled down at him, and Crowley was going to cry. Aziraphale was telling _jokes_. “Hush. I won't harm myself, I promise you. But you're dying, love. And you need hellfire, so hellfire you will have.”

“Can't argue with you.” Crowley smiled weakly. “Be careful. Please. Be so careful. Y'r my angel. Act like it. Wouldn't hurt anything else I loved...” He was rambling, but he thought it all got across.

“Of course, darling. Now rest. I have to go away for a little bit, but I'll be back so soon.” Aziraphale pushed him back to lie against the pillows.

Crowley couldn't even feel his wing anymore, or rather, couldn't tell it from the world of pain the rest of his body was in, the fever confusing him. Sod all this; he didn't save the world to die from a stupid little sword-cut.

Still. He hoped Aziraphale would hurry.

Everything after that was a blend, a weird half-dream. He dreamed of Death, but was pretty sure that really _was _a dream, almost certainly. Mostly because Death was there trying to buy some books, and Crowley was trying to explain that he didn't know any prices, that they'd have to wait for Aziraphale to come back, that surely he wouldn't be much longer. It felt like he explained this for days.

And then Aziraphale _was_ there. There was no way an angel with messy hair and a shirt _that_ out of fashion was anything but real. He smelled like tea and old linen, and Crowley was so happy to see him, and he was so sorry for dying. For his body burning up, his wing a stinking mess, for how gross he was and how hurt, and how he was going to leave his angel.

“You'll do no such thing,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley caught sight of the demon who had brought the hellfire to heaven, and blinked, and squinted. “Oh,” he said. “Angel, angel, get out, it's not safe.”

Aziraphale sniffed, and slipped onto the bed to hold Crowley firmly. Not a lover's embrace, but to hold his body still; perhaps he still had the strength to flail. “I'm perfectly safe. Now, burn the infection out of his wound,” he commanded.

The hellfire was pure, white-hot pain, ripping through his body. Crowley screamed, his back arching, but Aziraphale held him with arms and legs like iron bands, and his wing, they were burning his wing off, that had to be it, nothing else would _hurt_ this much.

The fire blazed through him and over him and left him gasping. Left him _freezing_; his fever was gone with the infection, his body exhausted and weak, but healthy again.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, while Crowley watched, dazed, from his arms. “You may go now.” He lowered his head, and the young demon bowed back, and vanished.

“What,” Crowley whispered, and closed his eyes as Aziraphale pressed kisses in his hair.

“Hush, darling. I'll tell you everything later. You poor thing, you're all right. Look, your wing is all right. You just need to get your strength back.”

Crowley turned his head and looked where Aziraphale's hand lay on his wing, soft and warm against his feathers. There was a scar, pink and shiny, but the skin was normal. His feathers would regrow. Azirapahle gently ran his hand down the bare spot, and Crowley smiled, because it felt nice.

He fell asleep once more in Aziraphale's arms, a deep and healing sleep, and he didn't dream at all.


	24. Beaten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mention of past physical abuse

“Let's see.” Aziraphale peered over his reading glasses at the board, because he was a twat, and then consulted the rule book. “I've got one knight for each of your paladins, and strongholds in at least three regions – ahaha, I've got them in four regions! – plus the Mighty Whizzbanger card in play so it appears that I have achieved, er, the cripple Mr Onion play and thus won!”

“That me beaten, then,” Crowley said, trying to hide his utter relief that the game was over. He'd mostly been building little towers out of the plastic counters that, according to the rulebook, were only in play in games of more than three people. So Aziraphale hadn't sighed too deeply when he'd started playing with them and had an extra knight or two charge them.

Truly, Crowley had only himself to blame. He'd thought he was _clever_, showing up with a new game for the two of them. It had a board you had to assemble. There were about eighty-five tiny plastic pieces to sort out, and a rulebook that, while not quite _Moby Dick_, definitely had to be carefully bound to handle the many pages that went into each and every insanely-detailed rule.

He'd had a vague idea that it could possibly be fun, and at least might annoy the angel with its many tiny bits and rules and things.

He had, somehow, forgotten that the love of his life, for all his wittering and distractibility, also had a mind like a QC who not only knew all the legal precedents going back to 1066 but had _lived through them_. Aziraphale, deep down inside, loved complicated rules and arguments and things.

Crowley, when he played chess, liked to make the horsies fight.

At least Aziraphale was a mostly gracious winner, quietly pleased with himself and giving Crowley a kiss and thanking him for the new game that they both knew would never again see the light of day. There was a single-player mode at least, so Aziraphale could amuse himself through a long week (going by how long it had taken them to play through one game with the two of them).

He despatched Crowley to open a bottle of wine and set the macarons out while he sorted the many tiny pieces and six separate decks of cards, possibly happier doing that than he was at beating Crowley.

So it was a very contented angel who showed up in the back room, took his usual seat, and accepted his glass of wine with the kind of smile that made Crowley go all wobbly inside.

“Oh, that's lovely,” he said after the first taste, and Crowley agreed, the two of them content to sit together in comfortable silence for a bit.

Just for a bit, mind. For two beings who had known each other for millennia, Crowley thought he might never run out of questions for the angel.

“Why d'you always sit like that?” he asked, gesturing with his wineglass. He himself was sprawled across a love seat, one leg up the back, the other curled under him. If he hadn't been drinking wine he'd probably be slightly upside-down. Aziraphale, of course, was sitting with upright spine, knees together, elbows at his side. It looked incredibly uncomfortable, but maybe that was just a thing his body did, the way Crowley's hips never really wanted to point in the same direction. “You can relax, angel. No one's going to show up and give you a demerit or whatever for the great sin of _slouching_.”

Whatever he expected, it wasn't Aziraphale cringing in on himself. Oh, fuck. This was a Heaven-is-full-of-dicks thing, _fuck_.

“No,” Aziraphale said, and smiled sadly. “I suppose they won't anymore.”

“Wait, they actually did that?” Crowley asked. “I was joking!”

“I know, dearest.” Aziraphale shrugged and looked down at his lap. “Not a demerit, but, well. We were...trained.”

“Hey, hey.” Crowley oozed off of the loveseat and across the floor to kneel before Aziraphale, one hand on his knee. Poor angel, his legs were so tense. “You don't have to tell me. Forget I said anything.”

“No, it's all right. You didn't do anything wrong to ask,” Aziraphale said. He was always incredibly careful to reassure Crowley of that, and it made Crowley's heart hurt in the very best way. “It's something...you must have gone through it too, but you've forgotten,” he tried to explain. “It was part of our training, as very young angels.”

Crowley nodded, and settled more comfortably, gazing up at Aziraphale. This was a slightly weird thing, for both of them, but he was comfortable here, snug against his angel's legs, so he didn't mind the symbolism too much. Also, he took Aziraphale's free hand in his, squeezing his fingers lightly.

“I wasn't very good at...anything.” Aziraphale took on that self-deprecating smile that Crowley hated with every atom of his being. “So perhaps I got it the worst. You've met other angels – I know I'm far...stiffer...than they are. But I don't remember anyone else getting the punishments I did.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Crowley kissed his knee. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve any of that.”

“I know,” Aziraphale promised him, and freed his hand for a moment to move a lock of Crowley's hair out of his face, turning it into a caress before taking his hand up again. “I know that now. But the body remembers, doesn't it? I sit like this, I move like this, because no matter how much I know I don't have to, my body remembers.” He smiled. “I'm sorry, this isn't very nice. My body remembers being beaten, until it didn't know any way to move other than like this.”

“Oh.” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand tightly. “Oh, darling. That's so wrong. My angel, I can't...” he made a small sound, trying to not let his anger leak out, lest he scare Aziraphale even a little. “I ought to've burned them all down when I had the chance.”

Aziraphale smiled and shrugged. “What's done is done. But yes. I know I look ridiculous.”

“Shut up. You look like you, which means beautiful.” Crowley kissed his knee again, and rubbed his cheek against the softness of Aziraphale's thigh. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you.”

“I love you too, darling,” Aziraphale assured him. “And I promise, this isn't uncomfortable for me.”

“Good. That's the only important thing.” Crowley set his wine aside, went up onto his knees, and pulled Aziraphale into a hug, one hand running the length of his spine, feeling for muscles too tight, knots that might need to be worked out later, and finding none. “You're safe now,” he added, just in case.

“Of course I am,” Aziraphale murmured, hugging him back, precious and soft all around Crowley's hard angles, the way they fit together so wonderfully.

Crowley pulled back a little and kissed Aziraphale until he was smiling, until being beaten was the farthest thing from his mind, that poor baby angel at the beginning of the world, who had the seeds of his beloved, tricksy, fussy, wonderful Aziraphale already in him. He kissed Aziraphale once more for good measure, and settled happily with his head pillowed on Aziraphale's legs, curled up sweetly at his feet while they talked of other things, passing pleasant hours until Crowley wanted to go to bed. Aziraphale would come with him, of course, and hold him until he was asleep, loving and loved in equal measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's too obvious to be an Easter egg, but of course Cripple Mr Onion is a Discworld nod :)


	25. Numb

Crowley put her head down as the rain beat harder. Cold. It was _cold_. This new world hadn't known such cold before, she was sure, not even in the desert at night.

(Millennia later, Crowley would get used to cold, or at least learn how to deal with it. But in the early days, when the world was young and so was she, it bit at her more harshly.)

At least the little one in her arms was all right; certainly better than she was. And the older children walking either side of her, each one holding onto her belt, they were doing fine. It was only Crowley whose feet had gone numb, whose fingernails were purple with cold. She tried to hide her shivers – her abaya was beautiful, chosen for the way it flowed around her, but did nothing against the rain. She longed, for a moment, for an angel's leather coat. Or a wing, to hold the rain off. He had been clever, or maybe just automatically good, that first rainstorm.

The air seemed to leach all the warmth out of her body, leaving her numb and moving forward automatically. These children were the last she could get to; the ones who lived out the farthest. She'd got them over the river, higher than she'd ever seen it, and they just had to get to the Ark and everyone would be all right. The kids would be all right.

The thing about building a huge ark was, no one noticed a slender demon who moved in the shadows, and made a secret room. Not in the very bottom of the ship – Crowley knew what a bilge was, thank you, and didn't care to be near one – but one low down. One hidden with demonic energies, so none could find it and none could enter if Crowley didn't want them to. Big enough for kids to run around in and sleep and eat and live until God finished her latest snit. Big enough for Crowley too.

She slogged across the landscape, stumbling a little on numb feet, her sandals providing no comfort or warmth. But soon – ah, there.

She was so _cold_. This infernal, endless rain sucked all the warmth out of her body, not that there was much there, serpent that she was.

But they had made it to the ark; she just had to go a little further. It sat on high blocks, but there was no one to see them, so her wings came out, gave a might beat, and there, there, they moved through the soft place in the world and were in the room. Lanterns hung and gave light, eternally burning. There wasn't much: blankets and clean hay for beds, things Crowley had stolen, things no one would notice. There was food enough for everyone, and plenty to steal just on the other side of the wall.

(Crowley could miracle up food, but she felt odd about feeding these innocent little ones the results of demonic workings, so that was only for desperate times.)

“Go dry off,” she said, handing the little one she carried to its older sister. “I have to...sleep...”

Collapse, more like it, her body shivering and miserable and she couldn't stop shivering, but this was the last of them, the last ones she could save. She made it to a mattress stuffed with fragrant hay and dried wildflowers, and curled up on it, hoping she'd warm up. She would just rest her eyes, and maybe this infernal shivering would stop, and her fingers and toes wouldn't be so numb....

The oldest children gathered, a small council of wisdom.

“Go get the angel,” one whispered. They knew an angel walked the ship; many of them had seen him. “He'll know what to do.”

Another nodded and slipped out through the soft place in the world Crowley had shown them, that would put them into the bowels of the ark.

Crowley woke slowly. She was _warm_. A heavy blanket lay over her. Her hair was a mess, loose and tangled, but she didn't much care at the moment because she felt _wonderful_.

A familiar voice pulled her a little farther out of sleep, and she blinked her eyes open, first seeing only white. Oh, of course – the angel. Aziraphale.

Blinking more, her vision cleared – stupid snake eyes, they always took some time to work when she first woke up – and she looked up.

Aziraphale sat on a low chair right next to her bed, such as it was. There was a tiny child on his lap drinking hungrily from a ceramic bottle. Two older children hung over his shoulders, watching, and he was smiling.

“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Do you feel better?”

Crowley pushed herself into sitting up. Her clothes were dry, and a heavy wool blanket covered her. The angel's leather coat was over that, fine and heavy and not letting a wisp of cool air touch her body. She wiggled her toes and examined her fingertips – pink and warm. “Y-yes,” she said hesitantly.

“Lie back down, Crowley, you worked so hard. Rest. I'll look after the little ones.”

He'd remembered her name. Crowley smiled and slid back under the blankets, turning onto her side so she could still watch the angel, and the little ones. “You found me.”

“Mmhmm. Some of the children fetched me. You were just in time, my dear – the river's burst its banks.” Aziraphale set the bottle aside, threw a cloth over one shoulder, and began to expertly burp the baby, rubbing its little back and smiling down at Crowley. A few more children crept closer to both of them, one wriggling his way under Aziraphale's arm, more sitting around Crowley's bed.

“God's plan going accordingly, I suppose,” Crowley said, but there wasn't much heat in it.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, lips a thin line. They were both sad, Crowley realized with a start. They were _sad_.

She reached out and rested her hand over the angel's foot. His ankle was bony, his foot finely-formed, and it felt good under her touch.

“I won't leave them,” Aziraphale promised. “Sleep if you need to, Crowley.”

Crowley smiled, and thought she might doze a little. Just a bit. More babies would need feeding soon, and the children would grow restless, and she knew the best games.

But for the moment, she was warm and safe and tired, so she rested.


	26. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something of a sequel to chapter 15, 'Muffled Scream'.

“There's no hope,” Crowley moaned.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale said.

“I can see the light at the end of the tunnel,” Crowley wailed.

“That's the street lights going on, darling,” Aziraphale said.

“I am literally dying and you are reading _Mann_!” Crowley shrieked.

“Yes, love of my life.” Aziraphale looked over the edge of his book, peering through his stupid cute little reading glasses. “You have a hangover. If you wouldn't even drink a glass of water last night, let alone miracle it away, you've no one but yourself to blame.”

Crowley made a grumpy sound and rolled over onto his belly to gaze sadly up at his uncaring partner. “I didn't wanna use up all my energy when I'm, you know. Healing.” He sniffled pathetically.

It shouldn't have worked. Crowley was a devious, evil little demon who should have been ignored by all and sundry, but _no_, his angel had to _care_.

“Oh, come here,” Aziraphale said, setting his book aside and patting his lap. “You could have not drunk as much in the first place,” he pointed out, even as Crowley laid his pathetic, aching head on Aziraphale's thighs, literally the best place in the whole entire universe. He knew, he'd checked.

Aziraphale rubbed Crowley's temple, the one not firmly planted on the angel's lap, and gently finger-combed his hair back. “How are your feet?” he asked softly, clever fingers working over Crowley's scalp.

“They hurt a little,” he admitted. “The skin's all healed but I guess the nerves are getting there.”

“Poor love,” Aziraphale murmured, breaking off for a moment to touch the last vestiges of a burn on Crowley's forearm. They weren't sure if he'd always have scars; holy relics would do that to a demon.

“Aw, I'm okay,” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale wasn't supposed to _care_. Of course he did – he loved Crowley, absolute idiot that he was, but sometimes this knocked Crowley off-course, the actual caring for him.

“Told you.” Aziraphale grinned when Crowley gave him a distinctly unimpressed look. “No, sweet, stay there. Here, I can't --”

Crowley felt the tendrils of angelic healing and yelped, sitting up and pulling away. “Oh no you don't! You're supposed to be resting!”

“I'm resting,” Aziraphale said, and butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

“_Not miracling_,” Crowley said. “You spent the better part of three days weak as a kitten, you did so much in that church. And for me.” He clasped Aziraphale's hands in his. “I'll lie down but only if you promise me no miracles. I mean it. You _collapsed_, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, just for a moment,” Aziraphale fussed. “But all right. I promise. We are both extremely miracle-free today, all right?”

“See that it stays that way,” Crowley grumbled, laying down again so Aziraphale could resume his scalp-massage. It really _wasn't_ fair; he ought to take care of the angel who had saved his life. He'd have to think of something really really good later, to do for him.

Something that didn't involve wine.

Aziraphale's fingers, blunt and strong and familiar, worked their magic, and Crowley sighed and relaxed, his headache genuinely easing. His body hurt, maybe a little more than he let on, but it was healing. The memory of being in the church was fading, joining the pool of so many memories he didn't want to revisit. The memory of Aziraphale rescuing him, protecting him, not even letting him see demons dissolved by holy water – that he held onto and treasured, deep in his heart of hearts, where the tender, soft things of him lay.

“I have a treat for you,” Aziraphale said, when Crowley was still and relaxed.

“Mmm?”

“Mmmhmm. Poor love, you've been through so much, you deserve one.”

“No,” Crowley tried to protest, but he was half-dozing and so relaxed and comfortable, he wasn't sure it really came across. “M'okay. Don't need anything. Else,” he added, lest Aziraphale contemplate leaving him to himself to go do something fun on his own.

See, he was very selfish and demonic!

“I know. But I want to give this to you, love.” Crowley could hear the smile in Aziraphale's voice. “There's a very slight chance it might hurt you, so you must tell me if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“What're you planning, angel?” Crowley asked, cracking one eye open.

Aziraphale smiled, touched Crowley's lips, and began to sing.

It wasn't the chorus of the angels – that really would have hurt him, and anyway it wasn't anything worth writing home about, Aziraphale had always said.

At first Crowley didn't recognize the language and wondered if Aziraphale had gone back to the beginning of the world but no – of course. German. Bach.

Aziraphale was singing one of the cantatas – Crowley couldn't recognize more than that, other than it was beautiful. Aziraphale's voice was fine, as befitted an angel, and he was singing music he loved deeply, which made it all the finer. With a single voice, the magic of polyphony was lost, but the genius of Bach still shone through. And brighter than all of that, Aziraphale shone through, his kindness and caring, the way he loved music and Crowley and the most human things of life. The way he sang, just for his own pleasure and for Crowley's.

The song ended far too soon.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked shyly. “All right, for an angel?”

“Perfect,” Crowley said. “For a you. I love you. Thank you. Your voice is very beautiful.”

“I'm all right,” Aziraphale said. “But I'm glad you liked it.”

Crowley smiled and wriggled a little so he could get his arms around Aziraphale's waist, and press his forehead against his angel's tummy. “I loved it. I really do feel better.”

“Good.” Aziraphale stroked his hair, and sighed, and Crowley felt it because he was so close to Aziraphale's body, because they were just that intimate. “I wish I could do more for you.”

“You literally carry me around,” Crowley pointed out. Neither of them had left the bed for a few days after Crowley's rescue; both too weak and tired and in pain. Aziraphale had recovered first, of course, physically at least. And with Crowley's feet still tender and healing, he had been ferried downstairs bridal-style in the angel's arms, a thing they both enjoyed perhaps more than they intended. “You _saved my life_.”

“Well, of course.”

“So that doesn't count?” Crowley laughed and hugged him. “Stop brooding, angel. Go back to your book if you need to. I'm alive and so are you, and I'm recovering. And so are you – present tense intended. You need care too.”

“And aren't I getting it, with my own demon cuddled up to me?” Aziraphale teased. “I'm not brooding, I promise. But I will go back to my book, until you demand more attention.”

“Perfect,” Crowley said happily. He'd have time to work up a really _good_ distraction. One that was absolutely terrible and demonic and irritating. One that Aziraphale would _have_ to pay attention to.

If it was also a gift and a kindness and something to show the angel how utterly Crowley adored him, that would be okay too, he guessed.


	27. Embrace

The advantages to not sleeping were, Aziraphale had found, many. He had hours upon hours when everyone left him alone to read; even when he got himself an occult boyfriend-husband-demon-whatever, he found one who _slept_ of all things, and so his hours of quiet reading only moved to a bed so they could be near each other. It was very comfortable, definitely an upgrade.

He could do other things, of course. Aziraphale loved a good moonlit walk, although admittedly in London it tended to be a walk under a sky the colour of iron, gratis light pollution. He did occasional housework, or perhaps knitted while listening to the World Service. He would still sometimes do these things, but that demon in his bed – it was like having his own gravity well or something. Mostly, he just wanted to be near Crowley, he found.

It had another advantage, for when Crowley had nightmares, Aziraphale was right there. As was happening this particular night.

He was getting good at catching them early, but his book was so absorbing, and he was so lost in the world of it that he didn't look up until Crowley gasped, and scrabbled at the mattress, so quickly and so thoroughly thrown into terror.

“My dear,” Aziraphale called softly, hoping that would wake him; sometimes that was all it took.

“No, no, not this, not fire--” Crowley cut off his words, howled and shivered, and Aziraphale's heart sank. Oh, this was one of the really bad ones.

“Wake up,” he said, louder and firmer. “Crowley, wake up, I'm right here, you're safe, it's a dream.” He shook Crowley's shoulder, and winced when his love made an ugly, choked sound, but at least Crowley's eyes opened, wide and golden and tears already gathering.

“Look at me,” Aziraphale said swiftly. “Look, darling. We're safe. We're in bed. Nothing can hurt you.”

Crowley burst into tears and threw himself into Aziraphale's arms, vulnerable and sad and honest in a way that even Aziraphale had only recently been allowed to see.

“Oh, no,” he murmured, holding Crowley in an embrace. “Oh, sweetheart. It's all right. Everything's all right. You had a terrible dream is all.” He gathered Crowley close, all elbows and knees, and tucked the demon's face against his shoulder, giving him a place to be utterly safe.

He held Crowley until the tears stopped, which wasn't a very long time – good. He would be happy again in no time, maybe even slip back off to sleep right there in Aziraphale's arms.

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered.

“Quite all right,” Aziraphale assured him. “Poor dab. That was a corker.”

He could feel Crowley smile against him.

“Heh. A bit.” He uncurled a little, and Aziraphale of course loosened his hold, letting Crowley arrange himself again. When he was done, Aziraphale was still holding him, but not so close – they could face one another, and Crowley kissed his cheek.

“Bookshop fire again?” he asked kindly, and Crowley shook his head.

“I wish,” he said ruefully. “No, this was an Anthony J Crowley original.” He sighed and took Aziraphale's hand in his, stroking the back of it, tracing the lines of the fine bones under skin. “I dreamed you were caught in hellfire, and I had to watch as you burned. As you died.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and kissed his cheek, right over the snake tattoo. “Nasty business. I'm sorry, darling.”

“Me too. Think I'm up for the day.”

Aziraphale nodded, but neither of them stirred, content to stay with arms around one another. Crowley was still a little shaky, and of course it wasn't like they had to do anything at all other than hold one another and be together.

“I love you,” Crowley said abruptly. “Will you lie down with me? I want to hold you too.”

“Of course, my dear. I'd like that very much.” Aziraphale set his book aside and slid down under the covers while Crowley shifted to lie beside him, the two of them coming together then, both their heads on Aziraphale's pillow as they slipped arms around the other. Aziraphale threw his leg over Crowley's, for good measure, and giggled when he felt a scaly foot rub against his calf.

“Would you like a distraction?” he asked kindly. Neither of them were _very_ much for sex, but it was fun, and loving, and oh yes, that was another thing that he did at night. And in the morning. And the afternoon.

Crowley smiled and kissed him, long and soft. His tongue touched Aziraphale's lips and they fell open, sharing breath, tasting one another. There was nothing frantic; they took their time with kissing, and Aziraphale even gave a little moan, because that's what Crowley's mouth did to him.

“Maybe in a bit,” Crowley said. “Probably in a bit,” he amended that to, and Aziraphale giggled.

“In a bit,” he agreed. “Want to just hold you first.” He kissed Crowley again, quickly this time, and smiled at him. “Make sure you're awake, get the nightmare far away.”

“Fuck, yes,” Crowley said, and hugged Aziraphale a little tighter for a moment. “Tell me something. Anything. Tell me how you're alive and well and love the world.”

Aziraphale's mind raced; their world was so _big_ and so happy, where to even start on it? “I'm going to a Bonham's auction next week,” he said. “They have some very interesting incunabula up. Not sure most of it's worth anything, but there's a bible that, er, well. I think I might have been the scribe for at least part of it. I recognized some of the pages they published. So that would be nice to have again.”

Crowley laughed, delighted. He definitely avoided that corner of Aziraphale's collection, but he liked the idea of them having a bible his angel had copied out. “Did you draw dirty things in the margins? Even I know the monks did that sometimes.”

Aziraphale gave him a hearty poke in the side. “I did _not_, I worked for the glory of God and also to blend in, thank you very much.” He smiled, remembering. “I was pretty bad at the paintings and things. I did an initial here and there, but no, I didn't doodle in the margins. My hand is all right; not the finest, but not the worst either. I liked my worked in the scriptorium.” He remembered a little more. “In summer. I, er, had other things to attend to. In winter.”

Crowley hooted with joy. “You got too cold and headed off for warmer places,” he teased. “I know you!”

“It was _very_ cold in there,” Aziraphale said firmly. “And you're a fine one to talk, serpent.”

“Yes, but I'm cold-blooded, I have an excuse,” Crowley said cheerfully. And snuggled a little closer, just to make sure he was quite warm, of course.

“Mmm.” Aziraphale pulled the quilt up a little higher over the two of them, because he was a softy and a pushover and Crowley had never dreamed he would ever be loved so intensely by anyone, especially not an angel. Aziraphale cared so easily and loved so carelessly, Crowley would have been afraid for him, he if hadn't known that his hands were the safest place in the universe when it came to where to place the angel's heart. No one could love Aziraphale as perfectly as he did, and no one could take care of him the way Crowley did.

“So you've an auction to look forward to. What else?”

“We ought to go out for high tea, soon,” Aziraphale said. “We haven't in so long. Someplace that isn't too posh, where we can get plenty of cake and we'll both leave utterly stuffed. Oh, and with champagne, not just tea.”

“Done and done, I know just the spot,” Crowley promised. “Tuesday work for you?”

“Perfect.” Aziraphale kissed him. “Thank you, love.”

“Of course.” Crowley settled the angel a little more comfortably in his arms. It would be a wonderful little date for the two of them. And a chance to say thank you, and show his angel a good time, and all the things he liked best.

“Tell me one more thing?” Crowley asked, when they had been quiet for a little bit. His heart still ached, and he still saw Aziraphale in flames when he closed his eyes. Maybe this would do it. Maybe this would calm him, and he could be all right again, and stop asking for things.

“Beloved, I'll tell you a hundred things if you want to listen,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley went all red and stupid at being called 'beloved'. That was one Aziraphale didn't pull out very often, and he wasn't used to it yet.

Good Satan. He was _used_ to the angel calling him 'darling' and 'love'. What kind of a charmed life had he accidentally stumbled into?

“Now, you know you gave me that fern for Valentine's day? Well – “ And Azirphale told him how the fern was growing, how the new fronds were curled up tight in the center of it, green and new and hidden. How it was getting big, and he'd have to repot it soon and would Crowley talk him through fertilizers? He was pretty sure fertilizers were involved. But anyway, it was so interesting watching it grow and watching the leaves uncurl, and how pretty it was.

Aziraphale remembered other ferns – from when forests covered more than they did now, and he walked among trees and great ferns under them, how they always made him think of ancient times now, and think of the ferns of Eden, and of course how he'd met Crowley there, and the first rainstorm, and how it was so different from last week when they'd got caught in a downpour and wasn't it a lucky thing Aziraphale had an umbrella with him – far better than a wing, and not just because it could keep them dry in public.

He may not have made it to a hundred things, but he got close, and Crowley listened to all of them, loving how Aziraphale was just absolutely _shit_ at telling stories. He rambled from topic to topic; it was like if _The Rings of Saturn _became a person except worse, because Sebald at least connected his topics. Aziraphale...only sort of technically did.

The rambling slowed by dawn, replaced by kissing; hungry eager kisses. Crowley kept his arms around Aziraphale, embracing him through it all. Maybe they'd never make it to sex; kissing was so much _fun_, and so sweet, and Aziraphale was very good at it. As they held one another, his fingertips worked under Aziraphale's shirt, touching the soft skin of his back and his sides, shifting fabric up to kiss his belly and, all right, clothes were definitely no longer necessary.

They slid against one another, bare and sweet and kissing and always, always, in each other's arms, holding onto one another as the still point in the world, the anchor, the grounding, the centre of all things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! I think I only truly missed two or three days, and one prompt really wants to be a longer story, so there's that to look forward to in the next few weeks!
> 
> I loved the challenge of these, but am very excited to get back to writing...everything else I'm working on. Thank you everyone for reading, for your likes and reblogs on Tumblr, and your kudos and comments here!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come find me on Tumblr at:
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


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